


The Saovine Convoy

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Action, Adventure & Romance, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Originally Posted Elsewhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Post-Witcher 2, Iorveth's Path, Free Saskia ending. Not Wild Hunt compliant.After Saskia is released from her curse and a witch hunt ensues, countless refugee sorceresses flee to Vergen. The free Pontar Valley soon becomes overpopulated, and winter is fast approaching. To provide for everyone, a convoy led by Saskia and Iorveth sets out from Vergen. With quality Mahakaman mineral ore in tow, the party must trek across a mountain range to trade their goods for food. They're beset on all sides by danger, whether the elements or enemy forces. Now that they've won their independence, can the motley crew work together to keep it?
Relationships: Iorveth & Saskia
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been gathering dust for a few years, but it was quite successful back in the day on Fanfiction.Net and Deviantart. It is unfinished, and I honestly wasn't sure if it was worth seeing through after Wild Hunt came out. Now that The Witcher franchise is back on the radar with the new Netflix series, I thought I'd at least test the reception and see if there was still any interest in this story.

_Just a few minutes’ rest. That’s all I need, then Vergen awaits._

Saskia clutched the scarlet red wound on her chest where she’d been pierced by a jagged branch a few hours ago. She leaned against one of the trees surrounding Loc Muinne and eased herself into a sitting position upon its base. The ancient city was barely a speck in the distance now, but she found herself steering her gaze towards it. She could still make out the smoke overhead—a beacon of her final act of ardent loyalty to Philippa Eilhart.

 _Philippa._ The dragoness clenched her teeth. She detested the very thought of the sorceress who had commandeered her own will—who had used her for the nefarious purposes now smoldering in Loc Muinne…and gods only knew what others slated to follow. Since Philippa had first arrived in Vergen, Saskia had caught wind of dwarven grumblings that the sorceress couldn’t be trusted, but she had hand-waved them away then. After all, they were hardly the only traces of distrust among the diverse rebellion.

The worst part was that, even under Philippa’s influence, her will had still seemed her own. She’d deliberately charred the armed men who came to apprehend Síle de Tansarville at the peace summit, and she’d made every feral strike and snap against Geralt of Rivia intending to end his breath. She’d hated what Philippa wished her to hate…even those she’d come to trust.

 _But never again,_ she promised herself. She had seen the dark colors that painted the hearts of those who cast spells, and she would never allow herself to become accessory to their schemes again.

“The smell…” a woman’s voice lamented not far off. “I can still smell them burning.” Whoever the speaker was, she was getting closer and she sounded nearly delirious. “The smell…I can never forget that smell…”

Saskia planted an instinctive firm grip on her sword hilt. “Who goes?!” she called.

“It’s only us,” responded a coarse male voice. Him, she recognized.

“Saskia? Where are you?” added a third, drawling voice. Him, too.

She released her sword. “Right here.”

Three sets of footsteps approached from around the tree. Iorveth greeted her first. He saw the grave injury adorning her chest then glanced back tensely at Geralt, who joined him a few seconds later. The witcher had his arm around a downcast red-haired woman Saskia didn’t know.

“If only I could have been there…” the redhead murmured.

Geralt consoled her. “You couldn’t have known, Triss.”

Meanwhile, Iorveth moved to Saskia’s side. “Geralt told me everything,” he said quietly. “How do you fare?”

“I’ll manage.” She rubbed her chest and looked over at the woman called Triss. “Who is she?”

“The sorceress Geralt came to Aedirn to find,” he replied. Saskia set her lips in a fine line by the word _sorceress._

“If I’d been at the peace summit, I could have said something…done something…” Triss continued.

“Nilfgaard was behind it all,” Geralt reasoned. “I doubt they would have let you just walk out of their camp.”

“If what you said before is true, Geralt, then Nilfgaard means to raze the whole of the Upper Kingdoms,” Saskia cut in abruptly. “I must make haste back to Vergen if we’re to have a chance of defending Upper Aedirn.” She gazed pointedly at Triss. “And I’m sure, in light of these events, you two have business of your own to attend.” She began attempting to slide herself up the trunk of the tree into a standing position, with some effort.

Triss lifted her head forlornly. “Um…but you couldn’t possibly make it all the way back to Vergen in your condition,” she protested. “At least…at least let me look at your wound. I think I can help.”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

“Saskia.” Geralt’s placid voice brought her attention back to him. “It’s alright,” he said knowingly. “You can trust her.”

Before Saskia could object, Triss knelt in front of her and inspected the injury, her hands still unsteady. “Gods…no wonder they call you Dragonslayer,” she commented. “This wound could kill a troll, let alone an average human.”

The dragoness looked at Geralt from the corner of her eye, silently asking, _“She doesn’t know?”_ Geralt must have understood, for he shook his head.

“I know a spell that can speed up the body’s ability to heal itself. It’ll also reduce any…disfiguring scars,” Triss explained.

Saskia’s body could _already_ rapidly heal itself, and one of the benefits of the Polymorph illusion she donned was that her human guise never retained its scars. But she opted not to tell this sorceress either of these facts.

“The spell causes discomfort, though,” Triss continued. “You’ll have to hold still until it’s done.”

Saskia looked at her. “You spoke of the smell of burning,” she said. “Did you mean the…events at the peace summit?”

“No.” Triss shook her head slowly. “I meant the slaughter of every mage in Loc Muinne _after_ the peace summit.”

“What?”

“I’ve never seen such a bloodbath…not even in Rivia,” she murmured. “When it got out that sorceresses had a hand in the kingslayings, the armies turned on all who practiced magic in the city. Even street vendors who never had dealings in politics were seen as threats.”

A ragged sigh, a haunted gaze into space, and Triss went on.

“In just hours, Loc Muinne became a tomb for mages. Impalements, burnings, crucifixions…I even saw several corpses with their hands cut off so they couldn’t cast spells. Why did they bother…? The magic barrier was still in place, so the mages couldn’t have protected themselves, anyway. They never had a chance.”

Saskia grimaced at the sordid tale Triss wove. “And all while those responsible get away clean…” she murmured.

“Not entirely,” Iorveth remarked.

“It’s only a matter of time before the remaining, responsible few are found,” Geralt added. “Then there will be retribution.”

“But at what cost?” brooded Triss. “All mages should not have had to answer for the deeds of Philippa and her lot.”

Saskia lowered her eyes to the ground at these words.

“…Go on,” she urged the redheaded mage. “Cast your healing spell. I am ready.”

Triss assumed her spellcasting stance, arms raised. An aura gathered at her fingertips, the gradually grew into a radiant ball of energy. She directed it over Saskia’s chest, and like a lightning bolt it coursed into her. Also like a lightning bolt, an intense shock followed. Saskia winced, but recalled Triss’ instruction not to move. She tensed, and waited for the spell to conclude.

All at once the sensation stopped. Saskia noticed the wound had been reduced to a scratch no more serious than one from a thorn bush—an effect that would have taken several more hours on its own, even with her dragon nature.

She was relieved, also, to feel no sudden increase of deep devotion to the caster. “My thanks,” she said, and stood up straight once more.

Triss gave a weak smile. “The free Pontar Valley will need its leader now more than ever.”

Saskia nodded. “We’ll start preparing for our Nilfgaardian aggressors at once.”

“It’s not just the Nilfgaardians you’ll have to worry about now,” Geralt said. “The carnage we saw today isn’t likely to end in Loc Muinne. Magic folk all over the realm will be targets. I wouldn’t be surprised if Vergen becomes a haven for refugee sorceresses.”

 _“Bloede cáerme,”_ muttered Iorveth. “A score more Eilharts passing through Mahakam Gates? Exactly what we need.”

Saskia glanced aside unsurely.

“…But how can we call Vergen free if we turn them away for what Philippa and those like her have done?” she finally posed. “Mages or no, they’re soon to be outcasts with nowhere else to go.”

“Not all sorceresses are like Philippa,” Triss offered. “If Vergen is the only place they have to call home, then most would defend it in the trying times ahead.”

“All the more reason to be on our way, then,” said Saskia. “I presume this is where we part?”

“Mhm,” Geralt assented. “Triss’ and my goals lead us elsewhere.”

“Good luck in them,” bade Saskia. “May we meet again in brighter times.”

“I’m sure we will,” said Geralt.

“If only there were any certainty that brighter times lay ahead,” Iorveth mused.

“Yes,” agreed a morose Triss. “If only.”

Thus, the witcher and sorceress departed. As though joined at the hip, they shrank into the distance until the forested horizon claimed them. Iorveth and Saskia stood, unspeaking, for a few brief moments. Finally, the elven bandit broke the silence.

“So the dagger worked, after all,” he said. “I feared another of the witch’s foul tricks when she claimed it must pierce the heart.”

“That _would_ have been a trick, then,” said Saskia. “Geralt only laid it upon my head, and my fascination with Eilhart faded away, as though the figment of a dream.”

“I knew it. That bitch…” Iorveth quavered with suppressed fury, clenching his teeth and tightening his fists. “If I ever see her again, I’ll—”

“And believe me, I wouldn’t stand in your way,” Saskia interrupted. “But we mustn’t seek her out. I shared her will long enough to believe she expects just that.”

He allowed his anger to slacken at her words. “Then, Vergen awaits,” he declared. “If you intend to fly there, I shall see you in a week’s time.” After waiting for a reply and receiving none, he took a few slow, reluctant paces in the town’s direction. She watched his retreating back, mired in her thoughts.

When the enchanted dagger had been pressed against her forehead and her senses regained, Geralt had admitted to her he hadn’t acted alone in breaking the spell. The sole reason Iorveth had left his Scoia'tael units to their revelry in the newly liberated Vergen and journeyed to Loc Muinne was to see her rid of Philippa’s hex. Had Saskia been told before that her sorceress advisor would betray and use her, and that it would be the Upper Kingdoms’ most notorious and lethal brigand who strove to aid her, she’d have been skeptical at best.

Then Geralt had struck a more personal chord and suggested Iorveth’s reasons for helping her weren’t purely objective. _“He’d do anything for you,”_ the witcher had claimed. _“What are you prepared to do for him?”_

At the time, she had cited an interest in dwarves as a means to change the subject. It wasn’t untrue; the hearty and stout way the dwarven people had about them indeed appealed to her. Among their many traits, they made commendable warriors, rousing tavern companions, and honest citizens.

Regardless, she was aware of the wistful glances Iorveth cast at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. In spite of the decades’ worth of human blood tainting his hands, she couldn’t fail to acknowledge the expression of sincere relief he wore just now upon their reuniting, nor his obvious desire to speak with her a few moments longer. Only now did she realize that since Vergen took up arms, she’d barely exchanged words at all with the one who first made her “The Dragonslayer.”

She could oblige him that, at least.

“Wait,” she called to Iorveth, following after him. “Perhaps I should walk, too,” she said. “There are armies still nearby who recognize my true self as a tool of the sorceresses’ bidding.”

He nearly smiled as he waited for her to catch up, and they strode side by side, bound for the dwarven town.

“Eilhart made you a tool of her bidding,” he spoke up, “only because you were at your most vulnerable. If more sorceresses do come, we’ll proceed cautiously to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

“That is wisest,” she agreed. “One thing is certain: there will be no more advisors. Philippa Eilhart’s post is to remain vacant; from now on, it’s the people I look to first.”

“Just as the people look to you.”

As they ventured on wordlessly, she was aware of his frequent glimpses towards her. He tried to remain subtle, but the disfigurement concealed beneath his bandana hindered his peripheral vision, meaning he had to turn almost completely towards her. There was something on his mind, and with a long hike ahead, she elected to address it.

“Geralt told me of your role in dispelling the curse,” she said. “I had no doubts of your devotion to the free Pontar Valley. But for your devotion to me, I am...grateful.”

He faced her. “Without you, there’d be no free Pontar Valley.” A pause. “…Did the witcher say anything more?”

She shook her head. “…Nothing of import.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergen sees intense deliberation of how to face their shortages.

**The Saovine Convoy: Chapter Two**

One month after the massacre in Loc Muinne, Iorveth surveyed the crowded Rhundurin Square in Vergen. Saskia had called a rally to discuss an important issue, and she now stood at the center of the marketplace with a multitude surrounding her.

Gwynbleidd’s prediction had been right: since the bloodbath following the peace summit, the dwarven town saw a surge in not only nonhuman population but spellcasters as well. The wayfarers poured in from across the realm, each with tearful stories to tell of cruelties against their ilk back in their hometowns. Fortunately, Merigold has also been correct—the refugee sorceresses knew Vergen was their only safe haven for now, so they stilled any ill intent they meant before.

The citizens had been disheartened at first to learn of the Nilfgaardian invasion. Victory against Henselt had seemed a miracle—to fend off the Empire would require divine intervention. Yet the days turned to weeks, and there was still no sign of White Sun emblems on the horizon. No one was sure why. First there was unrest, then cautious optimism. Dwarven women and children even started to walk the streets freely again—a sure sign of peacetime. The people dared to believe, in spite of turmoil outside their borders, that the future of Vergen looked encouraging.

“People of Vergen,” Saskia addressed the crowd. Her authoritative voice commanded their attention. “I thank you for making attendance.”

She’d kept her word and addressed the public on every major issue, putting each decision to a vote and acting in the best interest of all her citizens. Iorveth marveled at how gravely wrong Philippa had been about her: there was no one better suited to lead a realm of elves and humans than she, who was neither. Who was greater.

“What I have to say is a vital issue that concerns us all,” she announced. “As of late, Vergen had become home to the downtrodden from all over the Northern Kingdoms.”

‘Home’ was not the term Iorveth would apply to Vergen, in spite of being vagrant for over a century before settling here. As he looked over the town, overrun as it now was, it looked much more like a refugee camp than anyone’s home.

“I’m sure all of you wish as much as I do for this place to remain the harbinger of equality it was when first we defeated Henselt,” Saskia presumed.

Her success in establishing a land without prejudice was unprecedented. But as she spoke to the crowd even now, they sat in segregated sections of the market square. The dwarves occupied the seats to the right of her pedestal, while the human peasantry took the left with the nobles directly behind them. The sorceresses gathered near the back, just adjacent to the resident elves. Iorveth and his Scoia’tael clung to the fringes. “Harbinger of equality” was an aspiration that still remained just out of reach, even under Saskia’s fair reign.

“But in order for this to happen, something must be done about the shortages we now face.” Saskia’s voice grew grim. “Vergen’s population has risen a staggering twofold in the past month. Winter looms, and we simply haven’t the resources to feed and shelter everyone until spring.”

This prompted murmurs.

“You all understand how grave this is. Just as resources are scarce, so too are allies to turn to for aid. There are those in Kaedwen, Redania and mainland Aedirn who’d revel to see us starved out and primed for the taking. And underlying all of this, war with Nilfgaard rages on across all the kingdoms.”

The murmurs grew louder with this revelation.

“So,” Saskia posed, “what do we do?”

The question brought an abrupt silence over the assembly.

“…Bollocks, Saskia. Yer askin’ _us,_ are ye?” grunted Zoltan Chivay from the section where the dwarves were seated.

“This decision affects everyone,” she replied. “So everyone has a say. I put it to all of you. How will we survive the winter?”

A few in the assembly scratched their heads.

“We…er…well, we got us a right lot of sorceresses around here, don’t we?” a human peasant ventured. He had a strong build and ginger hair ending in mutton chops. “Ain’t there some sorta magic spell can, I dunno, just make food appear outta thin air, suchlike?”

“Oi! Let’s not start countin’ on magic to cure all our ills!” protested a she-dwarf.

“The spell you’re thinking of is illusionary anyway,” added a sorceress. “You’ll dine like a king, but you’ll just be hungry again within the hour.”

“Oh. Guess that’s right out, then, isn’t it?”

“It seems we’re all forgetting about a little pastime I like to call ‘hunting’,” said a nobleman sporting a courtier hat with peacock plumage. His rosy-cheeked expression indicated he was one who was used to getting his way. “I’d wager our elves have been itching for another chance to use their bows since the Siege of Vergen ended.”

“Use them on what?” a dark-haired, female Scoia’tael shot back. “The scores of wild game that roam Upper Aedirn from now until spring?”

“Well, then. If our local elves feel their part had been sufficiently played, then what of the elves of Dol Blathanna?” suggested the nobleman. “Surely they’ll have an abundant enough harvest to consider bartering with us.”

“Out of the question,” spat Iorveth. “Findabair and her subjects are nothing more than Nilfgaardian pawns.”

“But should we still be worried about Nilfgaard?” asked another peasant.

“Bite yer tongue, lad!” Sheldon Skaggs growled. “We should always be worried about Nilfgaard, and what those cocksuckers down south might be tryin’ next!”

“They ain’t tried nothin’ yet,” the peasant remarked. “They may be ploughin’ the rest of the North at present, but they ain’t even marched on us.”

“Aye, and if I was you, that’d worry me most of all,” Sheldon replied. “I’d gladly take an axe to any Nilfgaardian prick what showed his face here. But what’s stoppin’ ‘em?”

“That much is obvious.” A noble lady cast her gaze towards the sorceresses. “It only took one sorceress to reduce the nearby field to ashes three years past. We house a score of spellcasters. That’s why Nilfgaard won’t cross us.”

“Not likely,” cut in an elven woman. “The southern _d'yaebl_ has sorceresses of his own, after all.”

“Or it may be,” Saskia spoke over all the others, “that the Emperor bides his time, content to allow the winter to weaken us, then come spring he’ll pluck our fertile region out from under us. Whatever Nilfgaard intends, it won’t matter when or how we’re struck if we don’t see to providing for ourselves first.”

“We may be short on food and shelter,” Cecil Burdon chimed in. “But there’s one thing we’ve got that no one else has. We sit on top of a fat vein of iron no one this side of the Yaruga can compare to. Surely there’s someone out there who’s willing to trade for what we got.”

Quiet affirmations rippled through the crowd.

“Our alderman’s onto something there,” said Yarpen Zigrin. “Now, who can we trade our ore with?”

“Temeria?” suggested the ginger-haired peasant.

“Not current in our politics, are we?” sneered the nobleman in plumage. “There is no more Temeria. It’s been split into Redanian and Kaedweni territories.”

“Forget about Kaedwen. That fat-arse Henselt ain’t likely to be doin’ us any favors any time soon,” speculated Sheldon.

“But Redania?” asked a noble lady in the crowd.

“Radovid was at the forefront of the slaughter of mages in Loc Muinne, assisted by the Knights of the Flaming Rose!” exclaimed a voice from the sorceresses’ section.

“Never mind our current standing in the eyes of Aedirn.”

Iorveth leaned against a stone wall, the persistent voices of the debaters merging into a sort of white noise to his ear. This always happened at any deliberation with humans in attendance. They’d argue with the nonhumans, then proceed to argue amongst themselves. They’d let their base emotions steer their actions and speech, and in the end all that resulted was an eruption of mayhem which Saskia must then effectively dispel.

He and his Scoia’tael were the least concerned of all at the thought of a harsh winter. It wouldn’t be the first time they faced starving or freezing (the _dh’oine_ had been seeing to that for years) and they certainly had no delusions it would be the last time. Yet, they weren’t the only ones at stake now. There was the rest of Saskia’s vastly growing subjects to consider…including those now on the way.

He passed his gaze over the young elven women, both of his commando and amongst the citizens. Though lacking for places to be alone in the densely populated city, young Aen Seidhe couples had been frequently seen sneaking off together in whatever private corners they could find ever since the celebration of victory over Henselt. Already, some of the women were hiding radiant smiles and absentmindedly rubbing their bellies, hinting at the secrets they carried. The idea of elven children soon to be born was a much welcome ray of hope for the declining people. For their sake, all that could be done to survive the coming winter, must be.

“So, we can’t turn to Temeria. Not Kaedwen, Redania or Aedirn, either…and _of course,_ not Dol Blathanna,” summarized the nobleman, with a pointed glare towards Iorveth at the end. “So, what allies are we left with, then?”

This was met with more silence.

“Saskia. What of the Hengfors League?” Iorveth spoke up. A few heads turned.

“The Hengfors League?” Saskia repeated. “That’s a long way from here. Why such a distant place?”

“The western neighbor of Hengfors—Kovir and Povis—stayed neutral in previous clashes with Nilfgaard,” he recalled. “But Kovir is home to mineral exports superior even to those here. The Emperor will surely covet control of them sooner or later, but in order to get to them, he’ll need to pass through Hengfors. By trading with them, we’ll get what we require and they can make use of our goods to mount a defense.”

Saskia pursed her lips in thought. “Cecil, fetch a regional map,” she instructed.

“Right away.” The alderman broke apart from the crowd.

“Our Squirrel ‘friend’ would have a sound plan,” said the nobleman. “Except for one thing. How are we to get to Hengfors? I know my geography; there are no land paths to the place except through Redania.”

Iorveth glanced at Saskia. Unbeknownst to most of the assembly, she could make such a journey on swift wings. But to appease the human crowd, an alternative was needed. “We traverse the Kestrel Mountains,” he suggested. By this point, Cecil returned with a map, which Saskia inspected while Iorveth continued. “The range makes up the border of Redania and Kaedwen. By forging up the middle, we’d avoid too much attention from either side.”

“Shite. It’s crazier than anything ever come out of an elf’s mouth, but could work,” said Yarpen. “Both sides will be too preoccupied with their stands against Nilfgaard to mind a lone convoy of miners and traders heading along a mountain path.”

“But scaling mountains in winter? Bloody hell, that’s suicide!” exclaimed the ginger-haired peasant. “We’d freeze to death before we even got there!”

The female Scoia’tael scoffed. “The Aen Seidhe have managed it ever since you humans came here.”

“Be that as it may…Lady Saskia, are we truly going to stake everything on the whims of these Squirrels?” asked the nobleman. “A tenuous alliance against Kaedwen was one thing. But to readily let them lead us to our deaths in the mountains?”

“The Scoia’tael won’t be leading this expedition,” Saskia declared. “I will.”

A few collective gasps resounded. She turned the map to the crowd and traced Iorveth’s proposed route with her fingertip.

“I’ll choose a party from volunteers to accompany me north through the Kestrel Mountains to the Hengfors League,” she explained. “We’ll have the highest quality mineral ore from our mines in tow, for which we will find a buyer at our destination. The League will have need of it to defend against Nilfgaard, so they should be willing to exchange it for food. Our goods traded, we’ll return to Vergen the way we came.”

“Milady, forgive my candor, but that’s much too risky,” objected the nobleman. “What if the worst happens? Or what if Nilfgaard attacks here while you’re gone?”

“We could teleport,” suggested a soft, demure voice. It seemed to come from a temperate and apprehensive young woman. This is what made it strange that it issued from the sorceresses’ section. A lone sorceress lifted her head. She had platinum blonde hair and wore a red and brown plaid gown. “I can join this convoy, and should Nilfgaard march on Upper Aedirn, then I will teleport us back home to protect it.”

“Here we are again—putting all our eggs in the magic basket,” grumbled the she-dwarf. “Why didn’t she opt to teleport to the Hengfors League in the first place?”

“I don’t have a piece of Hengfors,” the sorceress replied. Her gaze was distant, almost dreamy.

“Come again?”

“To teleport to another region, I need a piece of its land. A leaf, a flower,” she explained. “So I can’t craft a portal to Hengfors. But I can bring us back here. I can use a Vergen rock. Rocks are everywhere.” She picked a pebble up off the ground, as if the assembly needed confirmation of this. “See?”

“Scoia’tael schemes, with a daft sorceress as the failsafe.” The nobleman shook his head. “Milady, there’s far too much at stake here. I plead you to consider less extreme alternatives.”

“I see but one alternative,” Saskia replied gravely. “If we cannot provide for everyone, then our only choice is to turn people away, and establish customs to restrict who can and cannot settle the Pontar Valley.”

“Restrict immigration? Turn away refugees?” Cecil asked. “But where will they go then?”

“Ultimately, the goal will remain that they could come here,” Saskia answered. “Just not now. Not yet.”

“It’s a harsh reality,” grumbled Zoltan. “But maybe that’s how it’ll have to be for now.”

“The free Pontar Valley was an ambitious plan…perhaps too ambitious to be realized all at once,” the nobleman offered. “I believe it’s the right choice you’re making, Lady.”

“But it’s not my choice to make,” said Saskia. “I will leave this to be decided by the citizens in a vote. Cecil, set up a ballot outside The Cauldron. Everyone has until tomorrow at dusk to elect Vergen’s course of action: either select a convoy to journey north and trade with the Hengfors League, or start turning refugees away from our borders.”

She turned to the crowd with a solemn expression. Iorveth knew that expression well. She donned it when she introduced him to the War Council. She donned it any time she had to persuade her subjects in matters of dire importance.

“Citizens, I urge you not to make this decision lightly,” she began. “Before casting your votes, talk to your neighbors here in Vergen. And by neighbors, I mean _everyone_ —elves and dwarves, peasants and nobles…and sorceresses likewise. Many of you may become convinced that we were wrong to assume ourselves so accommodating. You may sympathize with those who have called Vergen home for generations, who fear our good intentions will see us all starved, frozen, and seized by Nilfgaard like a helpless waif on war-torn streets. Perhaps you’ll decide that even in the free realm, restricting our numbers is the only way we can survive.”

She paused. “…Or, you may find yourselves moved by those for whom this place is the last remaining ray of hope.”

Iorveth felt her gaze connect with his for a fleeting second before she went on.

“It is said that to understand a person’s troubles, you must walk a mile in their shoes. There are those among us whose proverbial footsteps stretch back for countless miles, beset by oppression, bloodshed and heartbreak on all sides.”

She moved her attention amongst those most verbal in the assembly: from the female Scoia’tael, to the blonde sorceress, to the ginger-haired peasant, and finally the nobleman in plumage.

“These people hoped and prayed for a place like this to put up their weary feet. And once they found it, many of them risked their lifeblood against Henselt’s seemingly infallible forces for the chance to keep it. Perhaps, for their sake, you’ll decide that an uncertain venture with an uncertain ally is worth the risk, so that the free realm remains truly free.”

She raised her hands. “Go, and decide wisely. Tomorrow night we’ll count your votes, and the future of the free Pontar Valley will be decided by all its citizens.”

(***)

Over the course of the next day, activity buzzed around The Cauldron and the ballot just outside of it. Dwarves pledged their support for the convoy over tankards, and boasted of the mettle they’d display on the proposed mountain trek. Elves whispered dismally of the possible exodus back to the mercy of the forests. Human peasants and nobles seemed split down the middle on the whole issue. The sorceresses remained characteristically silent. The ballot box became fuller and fuller as the sun crept towards the western horizon.

When the hour of dusk arrived, tensions were palpable as the counting began.

(***)

The next morning, the ballot box was replaced by a big, bold sign on the notice board outside The Cauldron. It read: “Now seeking volunteers for the trading convoy to The Hengfors League. See Cecil Burdon for details.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ioveth and Saskia make a pact with each other to ensure the safety of all members of their company--human and nonhuman--on the journey ahead.

**Chapter Three**

The journey to Hengfors was announced. Within a week, the members of the convoy were selected, and their cargo gathered. Now, Saskia collected her things in her private quarters. In an hour's time, the company would depart.

She filled a travel pack with anything she may need: rations, maps, a compass, parchment and quill, among others. She mounted her shield and sword. All the while, her thoughts were on the difficult journey ahead. True, as Saesenthessis,she could fly over the Kestrel Mountains herself and deliver the iron ore to the Hengfors League, then return with much-needed provisions to Vergen before Nilfgaard could even mount an attack.

But the Pontar Valley needed her to be Saskia, not Saesenthessis. This mission was an opportunity for more than just a secure winter. She saw how divided her subjects were, how they squabbled among races and castes. By working together to achieve this seemingly distant-goal, they'd be another step closer to the harmony she and her father always strove for.

Still, with so much uncertainty on the horizon, she found herself once more wishing for Borch Three Jackdaws' ability to see the future. "Father…I hope what I do is right by you," she muttered to herself on her way out.

She was intercepted just outside her door. "Lady Saskia?" a small voice murmured.

She turned and met the speaker: a dwarven child. The little girl's strawberry blonde braids swiveled from side to side on her head as she coyly rocked back and forth in the Dragonslayer's presence. Her arms hugged around a package wrapped in robust cloth, tied meticulously with twine. Her face was tilted down towards her cargo, as though she wanted to hide her face in it.

"Yes?" Saskia leaned on her knees to face the child. "Speak."

"The family Olgar would like y' to have this," she recited, each word rehearsed. She extended the parcel with both arms. It was nearly the same size as its bearer. Saskia accepted the offering and unknotted the binds. The dwarven girl added, "I tied the string m'self."

The contents were soft. Saskia removed the cloth wrapping, and inside was a bundle of heavy, wine-colored material. Unfolding revealed it was a fur-lined cloak—embroidered with thick dwarven symbols along the bottom, latched by a metal clasp at the neck, and adorned with a tassel at the end of the hood.

"We made it fer yer journey," the child explained.

Saskia allowed a faint smile to creep on her lips. "It's beautiful; I've never seen its peer." She draped the gift on her shoulders. There were slits on each side, which her pauldrons fit easily through. Standing up straight, she found the garment reached down to her ankles. Great care had clearly gone into making it for her. "And it's to the family Olgar that I owe my gratitude?" she asked.

The girl nodded briskly. "We Olgars're a tailorin' clan, moved t' Vergen from Temeria after Henselt took over our part of the kingdom," she replied. "Everything we have, we owe to y—er, the Virgin of Aedirn."

Touched, Saskia knelt down to her. Her chin barely leveled with the top of the girl's head. "What is your name, young Olgar?" she asked.

"Delia. M' folks're Hilde and Oscar."

Saskia smiled warmly. "Then, Delia Olgar, tell your family their gift was sincerely appreciated, and I shall always think of their generosity as I wear it on the many cold nights' travel ahead. Tell them, also, that I hope they find themselves at home in Vergen, and I trust their fine craft will be put to good use here."

The girl grinned. "I will." With a tilt downward of her head, she shuffled away.

Saskia felt the fur lining of the cloak. She couldn't identify the animal it originated from—likely native to another region. The warmth it afforded truly would be appreciated on the journey ahead…if she truly were human. Her dragon nature remained ever hidden beneath her human guise, and among the advantages it brought was a strong resilience to extreme temperatures. Nevertheless, she tucked the gift's wrappings away in her personal effects and fastened the cloak's clasp around her neck as she strode on to Vergen's gates. She may not have had need of the garment…but best her subjects thought she did.

On the way, she was passed by Yarpen Zigrin, Zoltan Chivay, and a few town dwarves. All were carrying travel packs and headed towards the gates.

"I knew ye wouldn't disappoint us, Yarpen," Zoltan said. "It's no trading company without yer ugly mug."

"Aye, it'd be too bloody peaceful without y' too, ya cockerel," Yarpen retorted. "But I've yet to see eye or ear of Dandelion this morning. Did the git mention whether he was coming or not?"

" _Mention_ it? The bastard never shut up about it all bloody week," Zoltan grumbled. "Since the convoy was announced, all he'd blab about was how Saskia's company would need moral support in the Kestrel Mountains, whilst freezing our arses off and facin' who knows what sorts of fanged beasts. And of course, he was convinced that his music was the 'universal language' or some drivel to give us that moral support."

"Yet no sign of him now," remarked Yarpen.

"I'm getting' at that. This morning, he up and decided his unique talents would be 'best utilized' here in Vergen, with so many dispirited refugees in need of uplifting. Spoken while eyein' a passin' sorceress' arse, no less. Then he jogged off after her."

"Humans."

"Aye."

The dwarves passed on through Rhundurin Square. Saskia followed warily, a new cause for concern on her mind. Zoltan's words were true: the 'fanged beasts' laying in wait in the mountains would be a serious threat to them. Sadly, there were no witchers among them, and though her men had fought valiantly against the troops from Kaedwen, she had no idea of how they'd fare against monsters.

Awaiting her at Mahakam Gates was the young nobleman who had been the most articulate in his section at the rally the previous week. He sported an orange silk jerkin hardly suited for a mountain trek, and his peacock plumage hat still adorned his light brunette mop of hair.

"Count Tarn Marco," she addressed him. "I must admit, I wasn't expecting you on this expedition. At the assembly, you seemed most in favor of other options."

"Then I've made a poor first impression on you, Lady Saskia, and I entreat you to let my presence here serve to amend it." He bowed his head. If there was an art to speaking with an air of importance and pride, this young aristocrat was its master. "I've done as you asked and retrieved horses from my family's country estate to aid in our journey. They await outside Mahakam Gates. And might I just say, it's an honor to serve as your ambassador for this mission. I truly support your vision of Upper Aedirn as the birthplace of equality and tolerance. "

"But our hosts in Hengfors may not," she retorted. "Save your persuasive words for them, Tarn. That is why you accompany us, isn't it?"

He looked taken aback as she ventured past him.

"Tha…That's an exquisite cloak you wear, milady," he attempted. "It becomes you quite well. You must have imported it from an exclusive furrier in Vengerburg, if I be so bold to guess?"

"It was a gift, from a local family of dwarven tailors," she replied flatly.

"But that fur lining is unequaled by anything in this region. Is it fox? Mink?"

"Manticore," interjected a third speaker.

Saskia turned to the interloper. "Say again?"

"The cloak," Iorveth clarified. "It's lined with an Imperial Manticore pelt." Accompanying him were three Scoia'tael, including the dark-haired female from the rally.

"How can you tell that?" Saskia asked.

"Decades of sharing environs with the creatures of the wild have left their impression," he explained. "We're no monster hunters, but by knowing the predators of the woodlands and mountains well, elves had an improved chance of surviving. It was one less thing to worry about, aside the diseases and starvation we already faced."

Saskia stroked her chin in thought.

"The hide of a dangerous beast? Used in _tailoring?_ " Tarn Marco glowered.

"'Waste not, want not' as the expression goes," the elf said, unfazed. "The Scoia'tael used to recover such furs by the crate from ambushed merchant carts."

"Ugh." The noble shook his head. "Milady, I've reserved my best stallion for you. Would you care to come and see him? I'm sure he'll take right to you."

Saskia waved her hand. "Go ahead, Count; I'll be along. Iorveth, I'd have a word with you first."

Tarn blinked hesitantly. He tipped his head once more with a strained effort and departed out the gate. Iorveth motioned to the Squirrels, and they too departed.

The dragoness turned to the elven commander. "I'm glad you decided to join us," she said. "Commerce with the Hengfors League was your idea, after all; I only recognized the merit in it."

"Our work securing the future of Upper Aedirn is not yet finished," he responded. "The Aen Seidhe leave nothing unfinished."

"Which is what I wanted to talk about. While we're in the Kestrel Mountains, there is a task I would entrust to you…but I venture that you won't like it."

He crossed his arms. "We'll see."

"These are dangerous conditions I lead my company into. I doubt we'll be back before the first blizzard strikes, and most of these men have never endured the mountains in wintertime, or… dealt with its monsters." She pinched her cloak's fur lining. "We'd do well to have someone at the forefront who has faced these harsh elements before—someone who can properly equip us for them."

"In other words, you ask that I attend to your company's survival," he guessed.

"I cannot do it myself," she admitted. "My…'upbringing' left me with little need to learn survival methods, or even how to dress a wound."

He nodded in understanding of what she really meant by "upbringing."

"I don't need to explain what this task would mean. We both know how these people perceive you…and not without sound reason." She eyed him directly. "Know that I don't ask you to do this so these humans may forgive you. They won't…at least not in their lifetimes. I ask you to do this simply because there are none here who match the survival skills of the legendary Woodland Fox." She gestured towards him. "If you should agree, just remember that our party's welfare—their lives—would depend on you. Even the humans'."

"You're right." He uncrossed his arms. "I don't like the sound of that. But if this is what you need of me, so be it…on one condition."

"What condition?"

"My men revere you, Saskia," he said, "but they still also look to me for guidance. We are no less united than we were in Flotsam's forests. If I'm forced to choose between the wellbeing of the Scoia'tael and that of the _dh'oine_ , understand I can't turn on my own. I can't, and I won't."

"I understand perfectly, and I expected no less," she agreed. "I promise you this: I will do all in my power to ensure it doesn't come to that."

"Your promises are among the few that I value," he replied somberly.

"Yours, too, have proven they're worth their weight," she commended. "So there's one more thing I must ask. I trust you'll find it more agreeable." Saskia reached into her travel pouch and produced a familiar book. Philippa Eilhart's spellbook, with one of the pages torn out. "I found this in my former advisor's effects when her quarters were cleared for new tenants," she explained. "Is this how you discovered what she'd done?"

"I sensed something awry from Henselt's surrender," he recalled. "But Geralt confirmed it with a page from this."

She extended the spellbook to him. "Keep it safe," she instructed. "It's likely we'll need it."

He took it dubiously. "But why give it to me? I haven't a working knowledge of magic spells."

" _You_ haven't, perhaps," she said. "But our sorceress has."

"The one with the pebble?" Iorveth remembered the platinum blonde's folly at the assembly.

"Cecil tells me her name is Faye of Ban Ard," Saskia explained. "She fled here from Kaedwen, after Henselt readily jumped at the chance to purge his kingdom of sorceresses following Loc Muinne. Faye was in shock from the atrocities she'd seen, and didn't utter a word during her first week in Vergen. She hasn't been, to use Cecil's words, 'Mining with the right end of the pickaxe' ever since."

"Yet she's coming with us?"

"She spoke the truth; we may need to teleport back here quickly if Nilfgaard attacks. Time is of the essence, so we may wish to teleport back here anyway, once our trade is made. Not to worry—I haven't forgotten what she could be capable of." Saskia laid her palm on the cover of the spellbook. "That's why you have this. You said you realized first that something was amiss when Philippa had me spellbound. Now, if our Faye proves to be but another Eilhart, you'll know what to do."

He stashed the book away. "It's funny," he mused. "Eilhart was so certain you were incapable of leading without her influence. You prove her wrong ever further each time we speak."

Her mouth tightened, threatening to smile. "You think so, do you?"

"I know so."

She covered her head with the cloak's hood and glanced down as though to say something...right before an approaching clatter of hoofbeats on stone grabbed her attention.

"Look out! Look out!" hollered a peasant's voice atop the horse. Saskia sprang back just in time for the unruly red horse to cut in between her and Iorveth as it galloped on through to Rhundurin Square.

"Stop him!" cried Count Tarn Marco from the far end of Mahakam Gate. "Stop that imbecile before he hurts my father's favorite mule!"

The Scoia'tael girl came running after the horse—or mule, according to Tarn. "Pull the reigns, you idiot!" she shouted to the rider. "If you flail them around, the animal will only ignore your commands!"

"I'm trying!" the inept rider wailed. As the mule started to buck and kick, vendors in the square dove for cover. There were loud exclamations as stands were kicked over and goods scattered. "Help! He won't listen to me!"

The Squirrel caught up to the mule and seized the reigns, bringing the wayward animal to a halt. She pulled the reigns downward, bringing the mule's face to hers, and stroked its nose to calm it. Vendors peered cautiously out from under their stands.

"Did you hear nothing the _dh'oine_ in the feather hat just said?" she reprimanded the rider once the mule was subdued.

Saskia now recognized the rider as the ginger-haired peasant from the assembly.

"This animal," continued the Squirrel, "is for pulling the supply wagon. It isn't trained for a rider."

"I…I…" stammered the peasant. "I meant nothin' by it…honest…I just thought that…"

She gave an exasperated sigh. "Get off."

"But—"

"Get. Off."

He slid sheepishly off of the mule's back. She led the animal back outside Mahakam Gate, with a humble utterance of "Many pardons, Commander," as she passed Iorveth, averting her face.

"Tend your duties, Lark," he responded.

The ginger peasant limped after Lark, having just discovered the sore consequence of saddle-less riding suffered by so many men before his time. "Good…mornin'…Saskia…" he groaned with each step, trying to be discreet as he nursed his afflicted nether parts.

"Lionel," she acknowledged.

Once Lark and Lionel were out of earshot, Iorveth looked at Saskia. "…Is that man coming along as well?"

"Only if he walks the whole way."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Complications arise as the party sets out from Vergen.

**Chapter Four**

"Ploughin' drowners!" growled Zoltan on the upper bank of the Pontar. "Ye'd think _one_ death would be enough fer these rotten pricks!" He swung a sword at the amphibious, animate corpses that swarmed the riverbank.

"Then shut it and oblige 'em another, why don't ye?!" Yarpen retorted, axe in hand to fend off the drowners.

"Back to the depths with you, beast!" Lark cursed, drawing on her longbow and piercing a drowner through the decrepit skull. She beamed as she hit her mark.

Heeding his word to Saskia, Iorveth stood on the sidelines of the fray, ready to intervene should the monsters overpower the combatants. It seemed this would not be necessary. A few simple drowners were little threat to a party of this size—least of all to a band of elven and dwarven warriors whose bones itched for a good fight. Their battle cries rang with pent-up enthusiasm, and their weapons fell quickly on the necrophage aggressors. He let them have their fun for now…knowing full well the hardships in store for them further up the trail.

The drowner with the arrow through its head lunged at Lark. She holstered her bow and met it with her dual swords instead. In the meantime, Zoltan and Yarpen felled the creatures that attacked them in flurries of steel on waterlogged flesh.

It was a few hours into their journey, and so far the drowners had been the only complication. There had been no sign of Nilfgaardian troops when the convoy set out from Vergen…nor of Kaedweni, or Aedirnian ones. Not even the Knights of the Flaming Rose had come forth to oppose them. They had gotten as far as the edge of the Pontar River, where the only vessel able to accommodate their numbers and cargo—Loredo's prison barge—bobbed in wait. They had crossed the river on it, and it was while disembarking that they'd met this first foe.

While the more battle-ready among them busied themselves cutting down the river-dwellers, others remained on the barge. Iorveth looked up to the deck. Faye, the sorceress, watched the battle intently while playing with a lock of her hair. Lionel, the peasant, attempted to keep the horses subdued…under strict scrutiny by a skeptical Count Tarn Marco. Saskia held firmly to the side of the boat as it rocked amidst the chaos. Occasionally she called out instructions for the passengers to move and redistribute the weight, lest they capsize and lose the key to Vergen's prosperity to the bottom of the river. All the while she surveyed the battle, waiting for the all clear to usher everyone ashore.

"Right, there's the last of 'em," Yarpen declared when the final drowner moved no more.

"Let's waste no more time, then." Saskia mounted the stallion Tarn had been so eager to show off to her—a fine palomino specimen—and coaxed the creature down the gangplank.

Iorveth's gaze remained rapt on her. Had anyone else asked him to protect a crew of humans from their own incompetence in the harsh wilderness, he would have no shortage of choice words for them…but not when it was Saskia who willed it. As she rode her mount to the front of the convoy—her cloak draped regally behind and her strong, aesthetic jawline jutted in confidence—her very presence commanded his admiration. He was, after all, indebted to her for the secured future of the Aen Seidhe. He conjured nothing she might ask of him that he would not grant her.

She gave him a passing glance from horseback, her golden hair whipping about her face in the breeze, and he found himself suddenly more interested in the sun's reflection on the river.

"Cor, I think I stepped in summin'," Lionel griped as he headed down the gangplank and wiped his boots on the grass.

"Fast learner, this one." Tarn strode onto the shore, followed by two anonymous human peasants carefully set about bringing their cargo ashore. "First, he discovers why not to embark on cargo mules. Next he learns an invaluable lesson of where not to step in the presence of animals. I'll be putting my herd's care in his capable hands yet."

"I told you," Lark chimed in from the shore. "Let me watch over your herd. I am accomplished with animals."

Tarn forced a smile at her while climbing into the driver's seat of the cargo cart. He assumed the reigns. "Your willingness to contribute is…thoughtful, elf. But they're horses, not wild does."

Her mouth twisted in a nuanced scowl. "We used horses in the Scoia'tael unit I served before coming to Upper Aedirn," she said coolly.

"You'll have to excuse me if I'm less than impressed with a bandit's flair for handling _stolen_ livestock," Tarn responded, while the two peasants ferried the remaining horses off the barge and onto the shore. "However, Lady Saskia did request I provide mounts for everyone on this expedition, and I honor her wishes above all else." He glanced at Saskia with that final afterthought. "So by all means, Squirrel, help yourself to a horse, and consider it your responsibility to look after that one alone. That goes for the rest of your lot, too."

Saying nothing more, Lark selected one of the horses now waiting on the riverbank—a dapple grey suited to her lesser size—and climbed on its back. The rest of the convoy followed suit. At last, only one horse remained without a rider.

Iorveth looked at the edge of the water where the skirmish against the drowners had occurred. There was Faye of Ban Ard, skirts gathered in hand, barefoot and walking ankle-deep in the Pontar River. She stopped at every fallen drowner, knelt over it, and reverently drew her hand over its eyes to close them.

"We've no time to mourn for monstrosities, _daerienn_!" he called to her.

"Whatever hangs shall not drown," she murmured detachedly. "But these souls have done both."

"And now they trouble us no more. So come take your horse, and let's be off," he instructed her.

She walked with a cautious step—heeding the tiny pebbles beneath her bare feet—back to the party. As she climbed on the last horse, assuming a side-saddle position, Iorveth noticed something in her hand. Drowner brain tissue, which she promptly stashed away. "For crafting," she remarked. "What dies may yet live on. That is the nature of Alchemy."

Iorveth clenched his teeth. At least Philippa Eilhart never spoke so cryptically. "Alchemy is not our main concern. You do, at least, have the means to transport us back when our trade is finished?"

Faye pulled on a string around her neck, revealing a trinket hidden under her blouse. It was a metallic wire fixture, and set within it a single coarse, oblong stone the size of an arrowhead. "This piece of Vergen never leaves my sight," she assured him, tucking it away again.

That would have to do for now.

At the front of the group, Saskia unfurled the map she had used at the assembly. "Not far from here is a westward road which will take us to Murivel," she informed the convoy. "From there, we'll enter the foot of the Kestrel Mountains. After me, men! And stay vigilant—our enemies may abound." She kicked her steed's flanks and was off, the rest close behind.

The party was a varied bunch. Saskia took the lead. Behind her, the dwarves congregated on their steeds around a massive cart, pulled by two shire horses and driven by Tarn. Within was a bounty of metal ore, sufficient for Hengfors' blacksmiths to begin preparing a defense against Nilfgaard. Following that, a simple wagon was pulled by the mule and driven by a human peasant, with Lionel and the others nearby. The mule carried feed for the animals, tents for camp, and other provisions the group would need on its journey. Faye trailed them, head down and kept to herself. Iorveth and the Squirrels remained at the very back.

The scuffle with the drowners had seemed like a festivity compared to the next few hours, where virtually nothing happened at all. The convoy merged onto the westward road under Saskia's guidance and followed it, while their shadows became more and more elongated behind them as the afternoon dragged on.

At one point, Lionel attempted to strike up conversation with Lark.

"If'n ya don't mind me sayin', Miss…" the peasant began, "…you don't look like a lot of other Squirrels."

Her facial response mirrored the one when Tarn suggested she was only fit to handle deer. "…That's due in part to my not being a full Aen Seidhe," she replied sourly.

"That'd explain it. You're half human, then?" Lionel asked.

She glared at him. "If you ever compare me to a _dh'oine_ again, I'll have your teeth for trinkets around my neck." She paused, and Iorveth felt her apprehensive glance on him for a brief second. "…My parents were both half-blooded as well," she went on, her tone less hostile. "I may have a human grandparent on either side, but that never diluted my loyalty to the Scoia'tael cause. I've never even met them, not that I mind."

"We ain't alike in that, then," he mused.

"We're not alike in many ways," she replied, then stayed silent.

A few paces up the trail, Yarpen and Zoltan were enjoying the characteristically dwarven pastime of exchanging bawdy jokes with the other dwarves.

"And then the human says to the elf, 'But I couldn't help laughin' when I saw the gnome headin' back… carryin' ten ploughin' pineapples!'" Yarpen delivered. All the dwarves howled with laughter.

"Fuck it all, that gets better every time I hear it," Zoltan chuckled.

"It's all in the timin'," Yarpen responded. "And speakin' of which, Saskia, how much longer 'till we get to Murivel?"

She inspected the map. "If conditions favor us, we can be at its gates in a day and a half."

"At its gates?" Zoltan repeated. "Are we goin' into the city proper? It is inside Redanian borders, all that considered."

"We will send Tarn in first," Saskia responded. "Our Count has volunteered his services as our diplomat, so he will use his standing to get inside the city and report to us what reception we may expect."

"I'll win us safe passage at any cost to myself, Milady," Tarn interjected. "And if it pleases you, I'll negotiate commerce with Murivel itself. Perhaps we won't need to journey all the way to Hengfors after all."

"Let's keep our optimism in check," Saskia cautioned him. "We cannot prematurely count any town under Radovid's reign as an ally. Redania's king may not take kindly if he finds out how many refugee sorceresses Upper Aedirn now numbers."

The open road, until now sprawling across farmlands and fields, now began to lead them into a forest. Iorveth became wary. He knew firsthand that forests were ideal for traps. Faye, it seemed, somehow sensed the danger, too. Until now she had been keeping to herself, braiding and unbraiding a section of her horse's mane while humming an eerie tune to herself. Once under the canopy of the autumn-painted leaves, she fell abruptly silent.

"…Something's wrong," she whispered.

Never one to dismiss such a foreboding, no matter who issued it, Iorveth took his bow in hand and hurried his mount to catch up with Saskia's at the front of the group.

"Saskia, we risk an ambush in these woods," he warned her. "Would you have my men take the front to watch the treetops and ground for traps?"

"Do you suspect Redanian forces?" she asked.

"I only suspect _trouble_."

She nodded in assent. "Then you and your Scoia'tael take the lead and act as our lookouts. Our dwarves will surround the cargo. I'll cover the group from behind, should we be followed."

He turned back to the Squirrels trailing behind the convoy. "Scoia'tael! _With me, to the front!"_ he commanded in Elder Speech. They shifted to the head of the group.

Saskia pulled back on her reigns, bringing her palomino to a halt and letting the company pass before resuming. "Yarpen, you and the rest surround the cart!" she instructed.

"Bollocks, it's like the Kaedwen Trail all over again," grumbled Yarpen as he and the other dwarves fortified the cart.

"What's goin' on, then?" Lionel asked the air around him. "Anything I should be doing?"

"Stay close," Saskia issued. "And if we're attacked, do as I say."

As they ventured cautiously into the forest, there was hardly a sound—no birds or wildlife. That meant there was almost certainly something lurking among the trees. Iorveth stayed vigilant. The fallen tawny leaves on the ground suddenly became too thick…as if they had not fallen naturally, but had been swept there.

"Lark, clear away those leaves."

The half-elf Squirrel dismounted. She held her reigns with one hand and picked up a stick with the other. While leading her horse, she brushed away the leaves with the stick. Sure enough, something grizzly and metallic lay underneath the first pile she cleared.

"Snares," Lark identified.

_"Voe'rle!"_ Iorveth barked. The company abruptly halted while Lark continued sweeping away the leaves and disarming the traps she found—a delay that made them easy targets.

"Watch out!" Saskia exclaimed from behind, but too late. Several explosions followed, causing horses to rear in panic. Being at the back of the line and nearest to the blasts, she, Faye and Lionel were all thrown from their mounts. The others promptly jumped to the ground when panic overtook their horses.

Iorveth spun around, and amidst the chaos he saw where the explosions had come from. Behind them, several figures stood at the edges of the trees on either side of the trail. They donned camouflaged blankets of foliage, which they discarded as they joined on the trail. They wore typical bandit attire, and some had their faces concealed by masks, but all appeared to be human. Some of them reared back and fired another round of Grapeshot bombs. The bombs hurtled towards the already disheveled party.

On her knees, Faye waved her hands and mumbled an incantation. The party was encased in a bright yellow dome, which the bombs exploded harmlessly against. Iorveth recognized this spell; Triss Merigold had used it against his archers months ago when she, Geralt and the dog Roche had arrived in Flotsam.

"Oh ho! Looks like we got a sorceress here, chaps!" chortled one of the bandits.

"Take her alive! You know what kinda bounty they're offerin' in Murivel for the likes of her!" another added.

"I still get first pick of whatever's in the cart!" declared a third.

The bandits drew their weapons—a jumble of spears, axes and swords likely stolen from other travelers—and advanced into Faye's yellow dome. A few clung to the outside, assaulting the magic barrier with a steady barrage of bombs. It was unclear whether they were trying to break through it, or simply keep the horses spooked.

Saskia was already back on her feet, shield and sword brandished. With a forceful battle cry, she engaged the first bandit to step into the circle. His mace clanged off her shield, then was met in the shriek of metal on metal by her sword.

"Lionel! Tarn! Subdue the horses!" she ordered, as the bandit kicked her in the stomach and made her reel, only to suffer her counterattack.

"Do as she says!" Tarn hollered, climbing off the cart. "Get these panicked beasts under control!" He, Lionel and the other two peasants set about trying to stop all the horses from bucking and kicking. Some had been wounded from the shrapnel of the Grapeshot blows and had galloped off into the trees, bellowing.

The dwarves were gladly repelling their attackers, making a din of hollers and insults to the bandits' mothers. Dwarven axes and swords expressed their boisterous fury. All the while, Faye remained on her knees, laboring to maintain the shield spell. A bandit with a spear charged at her, but he was promptly swatted away by a strike from Zoltan's sword. "Have that, ye right bastard!" he snarled.

The forest trail had quickly erupted into a tangled mayhem of frenzied horses, Grapeshot explosions and clashing of arms: the sort of mayhem the Scoia'tael had no business standing by and watching idly.

Iorveth exchanged his bow for swords. "Let none of these _bloede dh'oine_ draw another breath!" he incited the Squirrels. "At them!"

The clamor of elven curved swords was added to the underscore of the battle. Iorveth's first opponent had little time to express his shock before he perished on those swords' edges.

Lark slashed fiercely at a bandit en route for the cart. _"Long live Sverren!"_ she shouted. The other Squirrels made their usual cries in the names of Iorveth and Aelirenn. One even called out "For Saskia!"

A bandit still outside the yellow dome inched off in fear. "Aren't…aren't those Squirrels?!" he stammered. "Cripes, these merchants got Squirrels with 'em!"

"Stop shittin' yourself, Horace! Squirrels bleed just like anyone!" another shot back, aiming a Grapeshot at the dome. "We got 'em cornered…traps on the far side, and _you-know-what_ on this side! So grow a pair, get in there and fight 'em!"

Horace's "growing a pair" resulted in him taking the hilt of Saskia's sword to his temple (barely a foot inside the magic circle) and tumbling face-first on the ground.

The human bandits shortly began to fall, one after the other, like the short-lived rodents they were. Iorveth's swords dripped like the fangs of a starving hound presented a fresh carcass. In the months of inaction since Loc Muinne…since the last two "monastic curs" to die by his hand before the peace summit, he had not lost his aptitude—nor his pleasure—for bringing an end to the humans that crossed him.

But what did the other bandit mean by "you-know-what"?

Faye's magic barrier finally gave out, just as the last bandit met his demise by Yarpen's axe. There was one more, masked bandit standing but a few paces away. The stature of this individual was lean enough that it could have been a man or a woman…and there were no vocal expressions to indicate either.

The party waited for the lone bandit to act.

The "bandit" produced a staff and teleported away in a flash of light.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth demonstrates his interrogation skills.

**Chapter Five**

Saskia tallied up her company in her head. … _And, that's everyone. Good. No one's lost._

By now Tarn, Lionel and the other humans had gathered the horses. Some of the poor creatures had Grapeshot shrapnel wounds, and one had stepped in a snare in the ruckus. Faye sat wearily on her knees with an assortment of cloth and herbs around her. She imbued the cloths with the herbs and handed one off to Lark, who cleaned and promptly bandaged her mount's injuries. Others soon replicated this process.

Everyone was equally confused by what just happened. Voices clamored throughout the convoy.

"Those bandits had a spellcaster."

"But why? Didn't they say Murivel was collecting bounties on sorceresses? Why would mages hunt other mages?"

"That mage didn't cast a single spell before high-tailin' it. Maybe whoever it was had more loyalty to coin than to fellow wand-wavers. That'd explain keepin' quiet."

"Mages are a devious lot. Maybe that one _meant_ for these bandits to get killed. I mean, I didn't see a single fireball or lightning bolt cast to aid them, did you?"

"Faye should stay hidden, if Murivel's in the habit of burning sorceresses for their entertainment. In fact, we should stay away from Murivel altogether."

"Do you think Murivel is still under Redanian jurisdiction? Or has Nilfgaard swallowed 'em whole?"

Slowly but surely the company regrouped. The Scoia'tael disarmed the remaining traps hidden under the leaves, and the path ahead was cleared. Still, Saskia felt several eyes on her for reassurance.

"Has this altered your plan at all, Milady?" Tarn asked her. "Do you still wish for me to proceed to Murivel as your envoy? Or do you see fit to pursue another route?"

She glanced to the leaf-littered forest floor, weighing the options in the best interest of her subjects. Getting involved in the turbulent matters of another nation could spell suicide for the travelers, or worse, the entirety of Upper Aedirn. However, if bounty hunters and rogue mages were to be a continued threat to them, then perhaps they would benefit from learning what the situation was in Murivel.

She needed time to think, and she could not do it here. "We'll discuss our course in due time," she responded. "First, we must get out of these woods before the corpses of the fallen attract beasts. Can our horses endure more travel?"

"Their wounds are dressed," the Count replied. "As long as we move on slowly, they should be up for it."

"They should still be allowed to stop for the night," Lark cut in, "when we get to safer surroundings."

"All right. We'll make camp shortly outside the woods," Saskia declared. "Let's continue."

On the way to her horse, Iorveth aligned shoulders with her. "We're within Redanian borders," he noted just above a whisper. "That mage's face _and eyes_ were concealed. Could it have been…?"

"It wasn't her. If it was, she would have flown away, not teleported."

"Even if it meant revealing herself?"

"I know her better than she would prefer," Saskia said. "Trust me, this was not her way."

"It could have still been an associate, then. Or an apprentice," Iorveth suggested. "I'd not dismiss the mage's presence here as a coincidence until I was certain."

"We'll proceed with diligence," she agreed. "Perhaps time will yield answers."

A muffled groan came from the ground level. "Rrrgh, ploughin' Squirrels…killin' me mates…bollocks to all of you…"

Several heads darted to and fro among the lifeless bandits to see which one had spoken. Before long the least inanimate was identified: the one who had been felled by Saskia's sword hilt upon stepping into Faye's magic circle. Horace, he was called.

"You!" Iorveth knelt over the bandit, the dagger affixed to his chestpiece now gripped in hand and pointed at the back of the lone survivor's neck. "Make another move and you'll find yourself reunited with the rest of your rabid pack. Understood?"

Horace stopped squirming instantly and lay still, face in the leaves.

The elf brought his gaze up to Saskia. "Here are the answers we seek. Shall I be the one to ask?"

She nodded in assent. If there was a survivor amongst their ambushers, perhaps the decision of their next move would be made easier, after all. "Try to show restraint while asking, Iorveth," she advised.

Horace's eyes peered up from the ground. "Iorveth?" he repeated, and visibly gulped. "Not _the_ Iorveth…?"

"The only one you need be concerned with now," his interrogator replied. "Turn out your pockets."

The bandit complied, scattering an assortment of Novigrad crowns, dice and caltrops onto the ground. Iorveth confiscated these effects, then searched his quarry further to relieve him of a concealed dagger. Then he turned to the Scoia'tael. "Check the bodies for anything useful," he instructed. "Then line them up in the ditch they first hid in." He turned back to Horace. "Leave room for one more," he added.

The hapless bandit's hair was gathered in a fist, propelling his face upward so he could see the elves carrying out this order. He was numb with fear.

"If my reputation precedes me, then I'd assume I don't need to explain to you how this will work," Iorveth declared, his voice never deviating from its deadpan drawl. "But since your actions so far haven't inspired much confidence, I will explain in words even you couldn't fail to grasp. You will answer all that I ask to the best of your knowledge. In so doing, you will spare yourself all the miserable ends suffered by your companions, _combined._ Is this clear to you?"

Looking on from a distance, Saskia noted the bandit's expression. It fell a bit, as if he admitted defeat and was prepared to cooperate. "As a fucking bell," he responded. "But you're wasting your time. We're just highwaymen, making a living off whatever we can get our hands on."

"You _were._ How long has that mage been in your ranks?"

Horace blinked. "…Mage? What mage?"

His unconvincing tone ended in a yelp as a vice-like pinch seized the pressure point at the base of his neck. Saskia blinked hard, and a few among the non-elves in the party shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Was that unpleasant? Because there are dozens of other ways to achieve it. I guarantee, if you don't jog your memory, my means of jogging it for you will make you wish you had," said Iorveth. "The mage who stood by and watched your comrades all die, and who teleported afterward. Divulge what you know about _that_ mage."

"W-What's there to tell? A-After Loc Muinne, mages around these parts is too busy pissin' themselves to wave wands," Horace stammered. "The bounty on magic folk in places like Murivel keeps it that way. They disguise themselves these days, hide in plain sight…"

"And hunt other mages?"

"Keeps the attention offa themselves, don't it?" posed the bandit. "Nobody suspects a sorceress of sittin' by, cheerin' with the rest of the rabble, while a fellow sorceress burns at the stake."

"It _was_ a sorceress with you, then? A woman?"

"Sure."

"I want her name."

"Well, you're shit outta luck. I don't know it."

"Is that so?" Iorveth pressed his foot down on Horace's back and pulled the bandit's arm up behind him. He grazed one of the spiked caltrops along his quarry's hand, positioning one of the pointed edges at the fingertip, just under the fingernail. "I expect even the densest thief knows better than to consort with masked, anonymous strangers. So why not try your answer again?"

There was no reply. The caltrop's sharp edge dug down. An unsettling mix of scream and laugh issued from Horace's throat. Saskia averted her gaze, jaw firmly set. She noticed that Faye had buried her face in her horse's side in revulsion. Lionel was turning white.

Iorveth re-engaged one of the snares and forced Horace's hand down towards it, the caltrop still wedged under his fingernail. "Ready to start proving useful? Give me a description. An alias. Then I'll reconsider putting your traps to new use."

"You're ploughin' mad!"

The trap snapped shut.

Saskia stepped forward. This was too much. She had agreed to this interrogation, but she saw now it was being done for the wrong reasons. Any information Iorveth got from the highwayman had become secondary to the amusement he got from extracting it. She had no delusions about the elf's menacing nature…but she would not abide it, not here and now.

"Hold on. Let me handle this," she insisted.

Iorveth stood and backed away compliantly. Saskia knelt down to the bandit with his bleeding hand in a snare, body jolting with repressed sobs.

"When they attacked us, your companions obviously thought their mage would aid them," she told him firmly. "But as I recall, not a single spell was cast in your favor during combat. Even when you discovered us to be protected by Scoia'tael, the only spell to be cast by your sorceress at all was to teleport away after you were all presumed dead."

She took the caltrop out of his fingertip as gently as possible before going on. Horace rolled his head to the side to face her bleakly.

"If you hold out due to loyalty towards this spellcaster, believe me when I say that loyalty is misaimed. Disclose to us what you know about this individual. Then, on my honor, you will walk away, and chances will be bettered of your betrayer seeing justice."

He nodded slowly. "She ain't been with us but a week. Kept her face covered most of the time, but I saw her take her shawl off once or twice to drink outta the stream yonder. She had her hair buzzed nigh up to the scalp…couldn't tell what color it was before. And her eyes were green as the grass."

"You never caught a name?"

"She just went by 'Lily.' That's all I ever heard, honest. She was just some no-account magician, lookin' to dodge the stake."

Saskia hesitated, then released the snare to free his hand. "Up. We're done here. Go east on this trail, and entertain no thoughts of following us. Iorveth, return his personal effects. Keep his weapons."

Iorveth tossed the dice and money to the ground. Horace collected them before stumbling up.

"Make no mistake. It is only by the grace of Saskia the Dragonslayer that you will see tomorrow," Iorveth cautioned Horace. "Should you tell anyone of us, do not omit that your thieves had us corned, yet we cut you down to a man. We won't hesitate to do it again."

"Our aims don't concern Redania, and we intend no trouble on this land," Saskia added. "But if we are crossed, Redania will learn as Kaedwen did that the people of Upper Aedirn are not to be trifled with."

She turned away and headed past Iorveth back to her stallion. Behind her, she heard the bandit grumble, "That meddling bint will be the end of you all."

Next, she heard an abrupt thrust of blade through flesh and an agonized scream, followed by the thud of a body falling over and shrieks of "My foot! You crazy son of a cunt! You stabbed me right through the fucking foot!"

Horace remained collapsed on the trail, whimpering and cradling his pierced appendage. The party mounted up and departed, to the tune of far fewer well-intentioned pleasantries and lewd dwarven jokes than on the way into the forest.

Out of the corner of her eye, Saskia spied Iorveth with his dagger back in its place on his chestpiece. The handle was now stained red.

(***)

The convoy stopped for the night just outside the forest. The mule's cart was unloaded of tents and other supplies, and a camp was set up. Dandelion's music would have been a welcome addition that evening around the fire. Tales of the White Wolf's exploits against royal strigas and lovestruck bruxas (tales which may or may not have undergone artistic license) would have served well to alleviate the tense silence that hung over the campsite. Finally, a night watch schedule was set, and one by one the travelers retired.

(***)

Saskia heard screams in her sleep. Cries of terror echoed off the stone walls of a dark cave, all from dwarven throats. The dwarves made frantic shouts for help. Desperate pleas for help. Despondent silence when it became clear help was not coming. Underlying it all was the guttural snarl of ever present monsters in the shadows. Fangs sprang out of the black.

She awoke to a pounding heart. As with any nightmare, she breathed deeply in her tent and awaited the fears of her subconscious to be quelled by reality. Sadly, relief could not fully take her, for the images in her dream _had_ been real once, and this same nightmare had periodically plagued her since. There were variations every time it recurred, but there was no mistaking what it represented: the mines beneath Vergen. Not long before the battle for Upper Aedirn, rotfiends had appeared en masse in Vergen's mines, and she had made the grave decision—with a fair share of encouragement from Philippa Eilhart—to close the mines off…even though there were still miners trapped inside.

Saskia knew, even without Philippa's assurances, that the sacrifice had been necessary. King Henselt's forces already outnumbered them a staggering five to one. Every warrior they might have sent to an uncertain fate in a rescue attempt would have only tipped the odds even further in Kaedwen's favor. That fact did not ease the dismal thoughts of those miners' final hours. The fear that must have gripped them…the hunger and starvation that at last withered them away…

She put her cloak on over her nightgown, wrapped it tightly around her and exited the tent. The morning dew beaded on her bare feet with every step. The eastern horizon just now began to whisper promises of an approaching dawn. Most of the convoy remained asleep in their tents; it was a good time to be alone with her thoughts.

Most distressing of all was the knowledge that she would have been more than a match for a few necrophages in her true skin. Just as she would have been more than a match for Henselt's forces simply by emptying her lungs of flame in flight over them. Just as she could make this present journey alone with her own two wings hidden by magic from her subjects' sight.

The truth remained the same as it had when that mine's entrance slammed shut and barred: sacrifices must be expected in pursuit of a cause as radical as the free Pontar Valley. But her doubts were ever present that she made the right sacrifices…or asked them of the right people.

"…Is…everything all right, Lady Saskia?" asked a female voice. Lark sat cross-legged on the wagon, back upright and eyes attentive to her surroundings.

"No need for the title. I've had a hard enough time breaking Tarn of that habit," the dragoness responded. "'Saskia' will do."

"Alright. Saskia." The Squirrel nodded. "What brings you out here so early?"

Saskia spied the horses tied up nearby. "We should get on the move as soon as possible after daybreak," she said. "I want to confirm that the horses will be up to the task."

"I checked their wounds before starting my watch shift," Lark assured her. "They're mending fine. The sorceress' herbs must have helped. But we shouldn't push them to run or jump, if it can be helped."

Saskia wandered over and pat her palomino's side. The stallion didn't make any signs of protest; he only nickered, hopeful for grain. While she granted him a handful her dream still weighed heavily on her, and she looked for a means to push it from her mind.

"I heard you call to a 'Sverren' in battle with those bandits," she said to Lark. "Who is he?"

The Squirrel gazed off into the horizon, as though longingly. "He _was_ the Scoia'tael leader I fought under before joining this one. Special Forces got him and his unit—I was the only one to escape their end."

"I knew I didn't recall seeing you among Iorveth's ranks in the Battle of Vergen."

A shrug. "I'm half-human. I'm doubtful the Commander would have abided me…not before the free Pontar Valley was founded, anyway."

Saskia glanced in the direction where the Squirrels were camped. She doubted Iorveth lost sleep over the deaths _he_ caused. She predicted the maimed bandit on the forest trail was the furthest thing from his mind tonight.

"Are there no other half-elves amongst Scoia'tael?" she asked Lark.

"Not many. _Dh'oine_ and Aen Seidhe alike suspect us of favoring our other half. But Sverren understood our plight, so he let us into his ranks." She bit her lip. "Some say that's what weakened his commando and led to its—and his—demise."

"I didn't intend to bring up such a difficult subject," Saskia apologized.

Lark waved her hand. "Think nothing of it. My tears are long shed, but I still honor his memory. That's why I call on him in battle."

"So you found your way to Vergen after your unit was lost?"

"Once I heard of your achievements, yes. For awhile beforehand I tried to join other Scoia'tael, but I couldn't gain their trust. The _dh'oine_ blood in my veins ran thicker than the blood on my hands, it seemed." She lowered her voice. "I'm not sure the Commander trusts me even now. I'm wary he might even blame my unit's fate on 'dilution' by the likes of me."

"If that were the case, would he be placing the camp's security in your hands now?" Saskia posed. "Iorveth knows that the only way elves can hope to survive is through cooperation with other races. I won't say he's content with it, of course, but he is willing to devote his all to our harmonious nation."

Lark tilted her head. "He stabbed a man in the foot only for disrespecting you."

Saskia pursed her lips. "I'm aware."

"Are you…are you two…?" Lark's voice trailed off.

Saskia looked at her pointedly. "Are we what?"

"Forgive me—I may assume too much," Lark said quickly. "It's just when I saw you both talking privately at Mahakam Gates…when I was chasing that mule …it looked to me like you were…close."

Saskia smirked. "You're not the first to assume that. Our cooperation has spawned many rumors, it seems."

"'Humanity's greatest adversary, subdued by a human woman'? I can see why such a rumor would spread fast," Lark observed.

Lark was unaware of her true nature, Saskia noted. Come to think of it, no one in the company knew the truth about her, except for Iorveth.

"There are things I've entrusted to him that I couldn't to anyone else. Not just to anyone else in this convoy…to anyone else I know," she admitted. "So, I suppose we _are_ close, as you put it, to an extent. But only to an extent."

"I see," Lark said.

Saskia returned her attention to her horse, scratching his muzzle absentmindedly. The person she trusted closest of all was also one who delighted in tormenting bandits for tidbits of information that may not even concern them in the end. This realization was troubling.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party faces betrayal, and other complications.

**Chapter Six**

Contrary to Saskia's beliefs, Iorveth had not slept so peacefully that night. Instead, he had occupied himself with thoughts of this "Lily." True, the sorceress may be of no concern to them. But after weathering Eilhart's treachery, Letho's betrayal and Roche's aggression, he resolved to stay cautious. That meant never assuming a potential threat (least of all a sorceress) was of no concern to him.

In between light dozes, he had spent a portion of the night scouring the pages of Eilhart's spellbook for mentions of the word lily, aided by moonlight. He knew the book contained potions and poisons, making little mention of noted magic practitioners. But the bandit Horace seemed to think "Lily" was only an alias…likely not a randomly chosen one. Iorveth wondered if the book would turn up any references to lilies being used in magic spells.

There were a sparse few. He discovered one variety of lilies was used by common witches in air-freshening brews, which were highly sought after by human nobles in times of plague. Another variety of lily had small berries, prized by assassins for their poison. Besides avoiding plague-ridden towns and refusing suspicious offers of food and drink, he learned nothing valuable.

After some time, the camp began to show signs of life. Faye knelt in a circle of stones, waving her hands and muttering some ritual or other. The Scoia'tael were up and about, yet remained aloof as usual. The dwarves woke and expressed their wish for hard cider, only to decide the water and rations on the mule's cart would have to do. Saskia conversed with them, eating and drinking with dark circles under her eyes. Her weariness didn't escape Iorveth.

The humans had not yet stirred. The dwarves ridiculed their lazy arses at first. Then as time went on, the sky brightened and there was still no motion from Tarn, Lionel or the others. Unease began to settle on the camp. Iorveth moved closed to observe what was going on. Zoltan finally ventured towards where the humans were camped to investigate. He hurried back not moments later, followed by Lark.

"Oi, Saskia, we've a problem," Zoltan began. "Count Marco and that Lionel fellow scarpered."

She turned to face them. "They're gone?" she asked, dismayed.

"Aye, took two horses and made off up the trail."

Iorveth began to approach Lark. Before he could ask why she had not seen the humans leave whilst on watch, she spoke up.

"They took the two least wounded while I was on watch," she said. "Tarn told me they were just taking them out to graze in pairs, then they mounted up and never came back."

"Them other humans, after some hemming and hawing, told us that Tarn said something about negotiating with Murivel and 'saving us this whole wild goose chase' to Hengfors," Zoltan recounted. "They said they wouldn't have nothing to do with it, that they honor ye above all else and wouldn't dream of going behind yer back. Only Lionel went along with it. I never did figure that one fer the sharpest blade in the armory. Didn't take much for ol' Tarn to persuade him."

"The sorceress," Iorveth cut in, gaining everyone's attention for the first time. "Tarn means to turn her in for the bounty."

Saskia paused. The shadows of her troubles looked darker, still. "Break camp immediately," she commanded. "We'll follow them, and then I will personally talk sense into our dear Count!"

**(***)**

There were clouds overhead as they set out. The trudge to Murivel was agonizingly slow. The horses hadn't fully recovered from their wounds, and even with a fresh administering of herbs by Faye, they ambled along at a reduced speed. No one dared ask to stop for food, rest or relief. They kept travelling all day, even into the dimly lit night. (The dwarves with mining backgrounds had thought to bring lamps on their expedition, thankfully.) Saskia checked the map, scouring for some landmark to tell them how close they were to the city's gates. The company watched the expanse of darkness ahead of them, hoping that soon Murivel's torches would appear in the distance.

Instead, pillars of smoke appeared.

"Fire!" gasped Faye. As they drew nearer, they saw she was right-Murivel was in ashes. The gate was open—unusual for this late hour—and the smoking remains of the city lay just beyond.

"Shoulda seen this coming," Yarpen remarked. "History proves time and again. Ye start burnin' sorceresses, sooner or later they burn ye back."

"It's quiet…there are no screams," Saskia noted, stopping at the gate. "The smoke is thick and the flames are but embers. This happened hours ago, at least."

Others may have credited her familiarity with fire to her role in the battle ended by Sabrina Glevissig's flames. Iorveth knew better. As always he awaited her command, as did the rest.

"Watch your step entering the town, split up and search," she instructed. "Our goal remains the same: locate Tarn and Lionel. If you find survivors, you should try to help them, but do not compromise us." Her attention turned to the Scoia'tael. "Iorveth, take your ranks and occupy the guard house at the entrance. Watch for trouble, both inside the city and outside. Ring the alarm bell if we're threatened. Ring it in two hours' time, so we may all convene back here."

The skies overhead were still dark and cloudy. "We'll have need of the lamps," he told her.

She looked to Yarpen, who brought them forward. "Use 'em in good health, the lot of ye," he remarked coarsely.

"Dismount, break into pairs and spread out," Saskia ordered. They entered the city in doubles—no two without a weapon bearer—and soon only the Scoia'tael remained outside with the horses.

The guard house just past the front gate had no door; only a stone doorway and steps leading up. Iorveth ascended, Lark and the others close behind. At the top was the alarm bell, and windows facing every direction. There was a scattering of swords propped against the walls, suits of armor and crates of other supplies, but no soldiers to be found. Not even corpses. Shining a lamp onto the street below revealed their own allies searching the rubble, but not a scorched body in sight.

Lark sat on a crate overlooking the south window. "Hey!" She started as it nudged beneath her weight. She stood up and yanked the lid off. "You! You _bloede d'yaebl_!" she swore at the occupant—Count Tarn Marco.

He stood up straight, adjusting his feather hat and smoothing his silk jerkin. "That tone is unbecoming even for your stock," he said. "You must all be confused, but if you'll kindly show me to Lady Saskia, I'll explain everything to her."

"You'll explain to _me,_ " Iorveth insisted, shining the lamp directly in Tarn's face. The noble recoiled and tumbled out of the crate. "It had better be the grandest explanation I've yet to hear."

"And if it isn't? Should I concern myself with you embedding your knife in _my_ foot?" Tarn challenged, stumbling back up.

"Only if you give me a sound reason. Now be out with it."

"Hengfors is a fool's errand. If only our Lady could see that," Tarn began. "I tried reasoning with her, humoring her, gaining her trust…but the voices of the peasantry and nonhumans ring loudest in her ears, while my words remain but an echo to her. I had to show her there was a much easier way to provide for our population, right here on this side of the Kestrel Mountains."

"By selling Murivel what they were buying in bulk?" Iorveth guessed. "A sorceress' blood?"

"Me, a petty bounty hunter? Never!" Tarn shook his head. "Murivel is…well, _was_ home to a prestigious dwarven bank. Wouldn't it have made much more sense to sell our ore right here, in the agricultural hub that is Redania, and go home within the week, fat with grain?"

"We can't assume Upper Aedirn is on amicable terms with Redania. Worse, with Nilfgaard if the Empire has already occupied this land."

"Get me in a room with the Emperor, and we'd be on amicable terms inside an hour," Tarn boasted.

Off to the side, Lark snorted.

"Not that it matters, now that Murivel is in cinders," Iorveth said. "How did this come to be?"

"The place was already in flames when I arrived with Lionel at dusk. …Yes, I brought him, too. No diplomatic mission should ever be undertaken alone; it's not good for one's public image," Tarn said. "There was hardly a soul in sight, but we heard a child screaming from that alley on the corner, under some rubble." He pointed. "Lionel charged in to help, while I hung back in the guard tower, above the flames and upwind of the smoke. I was waiting here for him to return."

"You opted to wait for your peasant charge in a _crate_?"

"…That was because I heard you coming," Tarn admitted. "I couldn't face Lady Saskia empty-handed. You stabbed a man's foot for much less, if you'll recall."

"I'm not inclined to take your word you speak true," Iorveth said. "How do I know for sure you came here to trade with Murivel, since we still have the wares and the town is destroyed?"

"Easy," Tarn replied. "Lionel was carrying a satchel, containing some samples of the ore. I prepared it to negotiate with Hengfors, but then I thought what if I brought it back to Saskia full of Redanian crop? Surely she'd agree to part with the rest, then. Find Lionel, and you'll see my intentions were pure from the start."

"Fine." Iorveth shone the lamp down the staircase. "You first."

"Beg pardon?"

"You saw where Lionel went last. Lead the way. Then you will both answer to Saskia."

"If you insist," Tarn conceded. Iorveth handed the lamp to Lark, who continued pointing it down the staircase so they could both venture on.

Down in the streets, the rest of the crew had moved on to further parts of the town. Tarn led the way to the collapsed alley where Lionel had rushed in to help a child, or so the former claimed. The lamplight from the guardhouse remained omnisciently on them. There was nothing but splintered fragments of wood in the alley now. A discarded axe lay at its entrance.

"That's Lionel's," Tarn said. "The chap was a woodsman before joining our Lady's rebellion."

Iorveth picked up the axe. "He must have used it to break this child free. Would he have gone in search of medical aid after that?"

"That'd be giving him too much credit. Knowing him, he probably went straight for a fountain or stream to douse the poor thing in."

"Then we keep looking."

The two trudged further into the fallen city. Reluctantly, Tarn turned back to Iorveth. "Know that I would never wish harm on, nor speak ill about Lady Saskia. I acted in her best interest."

"So you say, but you presumed her incompetence and went against her orders," Iorveth retorted. "Consider yourself fortunate that I gave my word not to allow her men to come to harm on this quest. We shall soon see if that indemnity still extends to you. It is her mercy you will appeal to."

"My peers in Aedirn thought me far too liberal, pledging my support for such a radical young woman, of what they called improper birth," said Tarn. "But I say Lady Saskia's ideals are the wave of the future. The world is on the brink of change, with harbingers like her at the helm."

"In that we agree." Iorveth assented. "Search over there." They came upon the nearest water source: a trough for horses. Finding it dry, they moved on.

"…And she is remarkably beautiful," Tarn added. "By human reckoning, at least."

Iorveth longed for an end to the sound of Tarn's voice. "Perhaps that is why the human aristocracy supports her," he remarked.

"I only wish she would realize this and stop postponing the inevitable."

"What do you mean, Count?"

Tarn donned a knowing look. "You elves may be prone forget this—excusable, granted your longevity—but Lady Saskia won't live forever. She is only human, after all."

Iorveth chewed his lip in silence. "…What's your point?" he finally prodded.

"I'll tell you precisely my point. A harmonious realm, a land of tolerance, and so forth…true, she's built a commendable legacy. But what's to become of it, if its founder yields no heir?"

"I don't like where this is going, _dh'oine_."

"But it affects you and yours most of all; you're the ones who will live to see it. Only a successor can guarantee the ongoing stability of the domain. Look no further than the former Temeria, and you'll see what I mean. One day, the Virgin of Aedirn will have to relinquish her firmly-held title and choose a worthy suitor, if she expects the free Pontar Valley to survive her."

" _Worthy_ , he says. Do you appoint yourself to judge who is worthy of the Dragonslayer?"

"There'll be no need. It's obvious; one of noble birth is the only option that makes sense for her."

Iorveth imagined how Tarn's incessant jaw might look dislocated, but opted to wait until after Saskia's judgment to find out. "I wonder if she would agree," he said sourly.

"She must, surely. It isn't that your younger peers are entirely without merit…but the young and fertile elves are so pitiably scarce these days. As for the dwarves, when was the last time they set their rigid sights beyond their own unsightly women and crossbred with humans? And then there's the peasantry. Bless her, our Lady meant well when she granted them rights and privileges, but they've been serfs and indentured men for so long, it will be some time before they've adjusted to all the new responsibility set before them. No, the only candidates who could couple with Saskia to produce a strong heir to Upper Aedirn are the noble-born."

Iorveth scowled. "Like you, perhaps?"

"Now, those are _your_ words, not mine. I never said I intended to court her. I'm just saying that she'd do well to give adequate thought to how her legacy continues. But I know she won't take my word. I only suggest that since she seems to listen to you—comrades that you clearly are—on your advice she might start looking for one to whom to give her hand."

"Enough of your drivel," Iorveth spat. "How her legacy continues is for her alone to decide. And hear me well, Count: there is no one among us who deserves Saskia's hand." He paused after issuing those words, reflecting on them himself. "…Not you, not anyone," he finished.

Tarn pursed his lips and maintained a welcome silence after that.

They turned a corner and found themselves at the heart of the city, marked by a well. They also found they weren't alone; Faye and Zoltan had their backs to them, leaned in over a huddled figure. Getting closer, Iorveth saw the figure was Lionel. His back was against the well, his knees were drawn up and his shirt was off, wrapped around an unseen bundle in his arms.

"I…I just didn't want her to be alone when she went," the peasant murmured softly. He lowered his arms to reveal what he was holding: a little girl's lifeless body. Her face was burned beyond recognition, but her vacant face appeared human. Her clothing suggested she was an orphan, maybe a street urchin.

"Right decent of ye, lad," Zoltan assured a distraught Lionel. "But have ye seen any other survivors?"

He shook his head.

"Other fallen souls?" Faye asked.

"Only her." Lionel squeezed the bundle in his arms. "She didn't have no one."

"Guess it wasn't sorceresses' work after all," Zoltan said. "Else the streets would be lousy with the dead."

Tarn emerged at Lionel's side and retrieved a satchel seated beside him, draping it on his own shoulder. "Then how does an entire town just burst into flame, and its citizens all vanish without a trace?" he pondered aloud.

"I expect Murivel fell much like the elven palace of Shaerrawedd did," said Iorveth.

"And how is that, exactly?"

The alarm bell started to clang, and all five turned their direction towards the guard tower. "We're in trouble," Faye announced softly.

As though on cue, a black shape began to materialize in the town's square. As if burning a hole between this dimension and another, its ragged edges expanded and then finally convened into a figure the size of an Arachas, though it was not an insect of any kind. It resembled a panther with exaggeratedly large claws and jowls. Its tail was long and whip-like, and it sported leathery wings like a dragon. Its glowing yellow eyes focused on the group by the well, and with a throaty rumble more menacing than a snake's hiss it crouched down, tail twitching, ready to pounce.

"Gods save us!" cried Tarn. He tore in the opposite direction of the beast. A crack split the air, and Tarn fell face-first under the lash of the monster's tail. The satchel spilled open to reveal it did, indeed, contain some of the ore. As the noble crawled desperately on hands and knees, the beast sprang at the others.

With Lionel's axe still in hand, Iorveth hurled it at the creature's open maw. It clattered against bared teeth, and the beast's head jerked to the side. In that moment's delay, Iorveth drew his swords. Faye teleported behind the creature, Zoltan readied his sword, and Lionel stumbled up—setting aside the girl's body—to pick up his axe.

The beast snarled and raised a massive paw to make a strike. From behind, Faye cast a fireball.

It promptly passed right through the monster and ignited Tarn's sleeve instead. Taking no notice of this, the monster swiped at Iorveth. The impact sent him reeling, but if not for the layers of armor he wore the razor claws would have left much more of an impression.

"What?! What are you playing at, witch?!" Tarn hollered, patting the sleeve to put out the flame.

"I...I don't understand," Faye puzzled. "It's a phantom?"

"It can't be that—it just took an axe to the teeth!" said Zoltan, just barely ducking under another whip from its tail. "Lob that thing again, lad!" he barked at Lionel. The peasant reared the axe over his shoulder and swung. This time the axe passed through its target and landed on the ground feet from Faye.

The beast, in turn, snapped at Lionel. Fortunately, he stumbled back in time and the massive teeth only gnawed his boot, which he slid off promptly.

"Pick on someone yer own size, ye shite!" bellowed Zoltan as he made a forceful jab with his sword, this time trying to hit the creature's leg. Alas, his sword too passed through as if its mark was nothing more than vapor. The phantom beast ignored Zoltan's taunts and continued to stalk Lionel as the panicked peasant backed away on all fours. Unwittingly he backed into Tarn, for whom a singed sleeve was about to become a comparatively trivial problem.

By now the rest of Saskia's party had arrived on the scene. Lark and the other Squirrels skirted the edge of the action, bows poised. Iorveth looked at the defenseless Tarn and Lionel. It was due to their carelessness the party was in this predicament to begin with, and it seemed fitting they reap the consequences. Tarn's arrogant words alone earned him a worthy spot on a monster's palate, in Iorveth's mind anyway. But he had promised Saskia that he'd guard her ranks from the elements and from monsters, so long as the safety of the Scoia'tael remained unimpeded. On the sidelines and ready to fire, the Squirrels were in no immediate threat.

He struck at the phantom beast again, if only to draw its attention away from Tarn and Lionel. This time, the sword blow connected with the creature's flank. It snarled and stumbled. So far, he had been the only one whose attacks had any effect. Why? While the beast was recoiling, he issued a follow up strike. This one passed through, and earned him a lash from the beast's tail. So, its weakness was not elven rage. What, then?

As he stumbled, three arrows sailed at the menace in procession from the direction of the Scoia'tael. The first went through and struck the well on the other side of the beast. The second went through and pinned into the ground. The third hit the beast's wing. It yowled and flapped furiously, stirring up dust and ash all around them.

Iorveth coughed, his one eye stinging. He thought he knew the phantom beast's weakness now, but he had to confirm his suspicion. "Shoot it again!" he ordered the Scoia'tael.

Three arrows swathed through the beast to no avail. He stabbed its flank, and again it shrieked in disdain. He sprang back to avoid the resultant tail lash. Now he knew.

Zoltan had figured it out, too. "Bloody hell, only one out of four attacks hurts it!" he exclaimed.

"Surround it, men!" Saskia cried out from just beyond the battle. "Watch out for its tail and claws!" She, Yarpen and a handful of others joined the fight, swords and axes raised.

There was danger now of the archers hitting allies. "Aim high! Go for the wings!" Iorveth commanded. The arrows now flew safely over the heads of the close-range combatants.

Even with their full power focused on the phantom beast, only a fourth of their combined strikes did it any harm. The combatants were all armed with only plain steel, making their attacks even weaker against the monster's hide. Already, the damage it dealt with its teeth, claws and tail began to outweigh the damage they dealt it. Zoltan was slowing up after enduring a massive claw swipe, and Iorveth was just becoming aware that the blood stains on him were his own. This direct assault would end in casualties, unless another tactic was found.

Maybe there was a way for the monster's incorporeal nature to be used against it. Iorveth broke away from combat, an idea forming. He retrieved the items he had confiscated from the bandit on the trail: half a dozen caltrops. Immediately after a sword blow from Saskia hit its tangible mark, he used the window of time that the beast was once more intangible to hurl one of the caltrops through its body. The barbed device landed inside the monster's huge, ghostly foot.

The beastly menace became solid again and reared back with an enraged roar, foot bleeding from the spiked object now deeply embedded in it. The trick worked…and it made the phantom beast angry. The town became a whirlwind of dust and ash as it beat its wings and swung its tail wildly, caring not who it hit.

"Call your men off!" Iorveth shouted to Saskia over the commotion. "I will finish this!"

She blocked a tail lash with her shield. "Fall back!" she issued to her men. Then, to Iorveth, "I hope you know what you're doing."

The perimeter around the phantom beast was cleared. Its sights fell on the helpless Lionel and Tarn…the former struggling to fit his mauled boot back on and the latter scrambling to pick up the fallen ore. Both froze when they realized the monster's attention was back on them. It staggered in their direction on three good feet, intent on taking its rage out on them.

Iorveth needed to redirect the thing's aggression on him. He scattered the five remaining caltrops before him and drew his bow. _"Spar'le!"_ he called to the Scoia'tael. The first resulting arrow hit—the second two darted on through. The phantom beast turned in their direction.

"Sorceress, a fire spell!" he ordered.

Faye tilted her head. "But it will miss…" she protested.

"Do it!"

Compliantly, she launched a ball of fire at the creature. As she predicted it careened on through, making a total of three misses. Iorveth then shot, his arrow piercing the phantom beast's neck. That was all the provocation it needed, and it started to lumber his way with murder in its smoldering eyes.

It didn't get far before falling victim to one of the other caltrops on the ground, this time in its hind paw. Iorveth backed away, bow still aimed, and the beast doggedly followed. There were smeared red paw prints trailing behind its every step. It trudged weakly, finally succumbing to the loss of blood. It raised its tail feebly, but could not even muster the strength for a last ditch lashing. It collapsed, its feral face mere inches from Iorveth's, and its eyes dimmed into nothing.

When the dust settled, the group gathered around cautiously.

"How the bloody arse fuck did you do that?!" demanded Yarpen.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saskia passes judgment on two members of her party.

**Chapter Seven**

The dark skies that had warned of rain all day finally burst, and the downpour snuffed out the remaining embers of the ruined Murivel. Saskia surveyed the aftermath of the fight. Remnants of smoke stirred up around the recouping combatants. Her eyes found their way to Iorveth, battered but adequately intact at the other side of the monstrosity's corpse.

He'd done it. He'd come through for her once more, just like in his grand intervention during the Siege of Vergen, and in helping to restore her free will. He'd upheld his word and defended the team—even the runaway Tarn and Lionel—from a monster's wrath, again calming her fears of more wasted lives. Only this time it had come at a risk to himself.

Saskia noticed Faye standing a fathom away from the elven brigand, inching towards him in concern. "You're bleeding," the sorceress said earnestly.

"Where?" Iorveth asked.

Faye pressed her palm to the left side of her neck in indication. Iorveth mirrored her. "Other side," she corrected, and he shifted to the left side of his neck, his glove coming up red-stained. "You can't feel it?" she asked, her head quirked.

"Probably just a lash from the thing's tail," he replied. "A trifling wound, by my experience."

"I could cast a spell to make it heal faster," she offered.

"There's no need," he retorted. "It will stop in due course."

Dissuaded by his terse response, Faye retreated to examine the body of the phantom beast. While she knelt over it—presumably to pay her respects and to harvest alchemy components—Saskia strode over to Iorveth.

"You did well," she commended. "Your actions may well have saved us needless losses. I should not have doubted for a moment your capability against creatures like this."

"Truth be told, I've never seen anything like it before," he admitted. "But if the caltrops hadn't worked, I would have found another way to lure it from your forces, whatever the cost."

"I can be assured now that my forces will be looked after when we arrive in the mountains tomorrow. And for that I owe you much," she said. Her hand came up to touch his, still pressed against his bleeding neck.

He shifted, but didn't pull away immediately.

"Are you sure the wound isn't serious?" she asked. Then, in haste, she added, "I just want to know that you'll be in reliable condition when we begin our climb."

"I've torn Special Forces units asunder in worse conditions than this," he assured her, taking her by the wrist lightly and, after a moment's reluctance, pulling her hand away. "However, if it will put you at ease, a length of gauze or cloth would help to stem the blood flow."

Saskia dug in her travel pack and found the cloth her cloak had come packaged in when presented to her by the young dwarven child in Vergen. She presented it to Iorveth, who held it in a wad to the lash mark. "What of those two?" he asked, gaze veered towards Tarn and Lionel. The pair was now under the watchful eye of the dwarves.

"I'll see to them. You might draw from the well to wash away the blood," she advised. With that, she turned and approached the two mutinous rogues.

Lionel donned a downcast face, arms covering his bare chest and mauled boot on his foot. He peered over at the corpse of the young girl wrapped in his shirt. Tarn maintained a confident visage, standing straight and tall with the satchel of ore on his shoulder, his hand fumbling with the partially singed sleeve of his jerkin.

"Count Marco," Saskia began sternly. "You have stolen a portion of our quarry and deserted our convoy, unauthorized. Lionel Hix, you stand as an accomplice to the Count. Under Demavend, such actions may have been viewed as treason and met with grave consequences. But I am giving you each a chance. You will have one chance apiece to explain your actions to me. Starting with you, Lionel. Why did you join Tarn in abandoning the caravan?"

Tarn caught himself in mid eye-roll as Lionel looked up sheepishly. "I-I meant no disrespect t' you, Saskia, none at all," the peasant stammered. "Count Marco, he pulled me aside this mornin', sayin' he had a better way t' get food to all Vergen's folks, without havin' to cross a whole mountain range and whatnot. And he demanded tha' I join him."

"Demanded?" Saskia echoed. "He made you act against your will?"

Lionel scratched his neck. "Well, no…" he murmured. "He…talked me into it, you might say. Gave me a reason t' go along wi' it."

"What reason?" she pried. Lionel started to look towards Tarn, but was abruptly stopped by Saskia's command of "Eyes to me, not him!"

He swallowed hard, looking her in the face. "…I got a kid in Aedirn, y'see," he uttered.

She raised her eyebrows. Lionel had been amongst her common-born subjects since the uprising, but never had he mentioned a family in mainland Aedirn, let alone children. The thought of him as a father was…unexpected, to say the least.

"I got a kid in Aedirn," he repeated. "Must be about five years ago now. I worked the forests on a certain baron's land. The baron's daughter and I, we took a liking to each other, and...well, I won't go into all that, Miss. But when the baron found out his daughter was carryin' a common bastard, that didn't sit to well wi' him. He run me off of his land and forced her into an arranged marriage, coverin' up the kid's real roots. Some lord in Aedirn thinks that kid is his. But it's really mine…and I ain't never seen it, never even learned if it was a boy or girl."

"Did Count Marco threaten your child if you wouldn't help him?" Saskia asked.

"No, nothin' like that. The Count said he knows the baron I served in Aedirn. Said he could arrange for my kid to be brought safe to the Pontar Valley," Lionel explained. "That's why I come into your rebellion in the first place, Saskia. A place where highborn and lowborn is equal…in a place like that, I could be free to see my kid. I could say that kid is mine, and pick 'em up and hold 'em without disgracin' their mother. That's why I listened to the Count, Miss. I never meant no insult to you."

Saskia's expression softened for a fleeting moment, but she resumed her stern demeanor as she turned to Tarn. "Is he telling the truth?" she asked the noble.

"I can't be expected to account for his reasons of coming into your service, Lady," he said. "But the rest is most certainly true. I'm well acquainted with the family he served and the scandal he wrought upon their daughter. And it's also true, I did agree to pull some strings so he might visit with the young bastard, if he would grant me his cooperation."

"His cooperation in undermining our mission, in threatening us and all of Upper Aedirn?" Saskia added coolly.

"I implore you to hear my side before you condemn it as such," he said. "Lady Saskia, you are a remarkable leader, bound to usher in a new era. But you must realize, if only in the back of your mind, that this trek to Hengfors can't possibly succeed. Look at my poor horses, for instance. My father put his blood, sweat and tears into raising these animals. They are the very finest pedigree in Aedirn, and they've already been injured once. Now they're to pull a heavy freight over a hazardous mountain range, with no road to travel on, and in a winter climate no less? They'll be hurt severely on the slippery crags. The cargo will be lost to the first snow, and us with it."

Saskia thrust a finger at him. "If this was your fear, you could have told me so directly."

"Forgive me, Milady, but in a way I did," Tarn said. "Shortly after we crossed the Pontar, I suggested that we might spare ourselves the trouble of journeying to the Hengfors League by negotiating commerce with Murivel instead. When I was denied, it seemed best to _show_ you the merit in my plan, by bringing back a sampling." He patted the satchel full of ore at his hip.

She glanced off in thought, her thumb and forefinger nestled under her chin. The company stood around her, watching, waiting to see how she'd respond.

"…Perhaps you're right, Tarn" she finally said. "The Hengfors League is far away and difficult to reach. Perhaps, before acting so hastily, I should have considered the views of those in my charge and examined other options."

"You should have?" Tarn blinked. "I mean yes, I should say so, Lady."

"So, then…" Saskia looked around. "With Murivel burned to a husk devoid of merchants with whom to trade, and with the next Redanian town several days away and very likely beset by the Empire, what do you propose as our next move, Count Marco?"

He fell silent, his jaw slack, and for once without words.

"You have our ears, Count," Saskia prodded once more. "If you truly know what is best for Upper Aedirn, how shall we proceed?"

"We could…um…" He chewed his lip, and his Adam's apple quivered in his throat as he searched for a coherent sentence. "There were no bodies in the town, excluding this street urchin." He indicated the dead girl wrapped in Lionel's shirt. "Perhaps the citizens sought refuge somewhere nearby. To start, we could find out where they went."

"And where do you think they went?"

Tarn managed to smile knowingly. "In my modest opinion, I'd say this town went the way of the elven palace of Shehe…Shehera…"

_"Shaerrawedd,"_ Iorveth finished bitterly. "An elven monument in Kaedwen, destroyed by the Aen Seidhe themselves to prevent human invaders from building on its foundation. Familiarize yourself with our history before you use it to your own ends, Count."

"Right. Shaerrawedd," Tarn echoed. "So, the citizens of Murivel laid waste to their _own_ city, as the elves did, to deny its use to…to whom?" He trailed off. "…To Nilfgaard?"

"It happens in war," Zoltan chimed in. "Keeps the enemy from laying claim to a conquered town's resources. Thing is, if these Murivel folks thought old Emhyr was set on addin' their city as a notch to his belt, there's only one place they could have fled."

"The mountains," said Lark.

Tarn turned to her. "But I've seen Lady Saskia's map, and as I established before, there's no path to offer safe passage for a team of horses in the Kestrel Mountain range."

"That map's maker was either human or dwarf, but clearly not an elf," Lark responded. "The Aen Seidhe were herded by humans into the mountains well before any _dh'oine_ put them to paper, so they would know the mountains' secrets better."

"You mean to tell me we are using hidden elven trails, then?"

"Not so hidden anymore," she replied. "The Kestrel Mountains were the territory of my former Scoia'tael unit, which you may have heard were all killed by Special Forces. Now the trails we walked and rode are abandoned, but should still be usable."

Again, he reacted with silence.

"Are you satisfied now?" Saskia asked him. "I've no intention of sending us to an early end amongst the snow-capped peaks. We've considered the risks and prepared as best as possible for them. This is no fool's errand, nor a wild goose chase. Do you see?"

"I see," he assented. "But there is still one flaw that occurs to me. If Murivel was destroyed because Nilfgaardian forces were on the way, then their black shadows could be looming over Vergen any day now. Our sorceress claims she can teleport us back at a moment's notice…but I saw the way she struggled simply to maintain that barrier against the bandits on the forest trail. The strain of moving us all from one point on the land to another must be far more strenuous. Are we certain she can do it?"

"That's a question for her," Saskia remarked, stepping aside to let Faye speak.

"I can do it," the sorceress began, reaching for a pouch fastened to her skirt. "…With these." She emptied the pouch contents into her hand. A mound of lustrous gems gleamed atop her palm.

"I thought you said you needed a rock from Vergen to bring us back," Tarn puzzled.

"That. And these." She allowed the crystals to trickle from one palm into another. The shimmer they boasted even at this dark hour was from no natural light source, but a magical one. "The amount of The Power it will take to bring us home is more than any one mage can conjure at a time. And the further we get from Vergen, the more it will take," she explained. "So every morning, I will perform a ritual to store a little more of The Power in these. That way we will always have enough."

"You sound quite sure," Tarn said. "All my horses, all our supplies and teammates…all will be accounted for by your spell?"

"All of them," Faye declared. "And cats, too."

The statement earned her several skeptical stares.

"Cats are drawn to The Power," she explained. "When I cast the spell to conjure a portal back to Vergen, a stray might jump in and deplete some of The Power. By storing extra, nothing will be left behind."

Tarn had no reply. All eyes were on him, and his were on Saskia. Slowly, he removed the satchel of ore from his arm and extended it to Upper Aedirn's leader. "I acted in haste," he confessed. "You have prepared well for this journey, and barring the unforeseen, you may succeed after all. I shall make no further attempts to obstruct you, Lady Saskia. If you so will it, I shall adhere to the assignment you have allotted to me: negotiating with the officials of Hengfors."

Saskia took the satchel and tucked it under her own arm. "You said yourself I am bound to usher in a new era, Tarn," she replied. "What you must realize is that the era I herald in is to be one of harmony, of cooperation by all people regardless of race or caste. While you may have acted in the best interest of Vergen, you erred by acting alone. Yes, you beguiled Lionel into supporting you, but this decision was solely yours. You assumed you, and no other, knew best. For this, appropriate action will be decided upon by a council when we return to Upper Aedirn. Until then, you are not to leave the sight of this convoy. Whether we move forward, stop to camp or face aggressors, you will remain supervised at all times."

He slouched down in defeated acceptance of this. Saskia turned her attention on Lionel. "As for you," she said, "You've proven your loyalty during the rebellion. Your aid in building our ramparts was invaluable when the Kaedwenis attacked. You are no traitor in my sight…your greatest error was to allow yourself to be to readily led astray."

"I shoulda come to you first," Lionel admitted. "I done you wrong, leading the group into this burning town."

"You clearly realize your mistake, and I see you've been punished enough as it is." She glanced solemnly to the burned corpse of the child Lionel had tried to save. "So this will be your first and only warning. From here on out, you are to stick to the duties for which you volunteered when you joined our convoy. If you're asked to take on any others, you are not to lift a finger until you've contacted me first. If I find out you're acted against the good of the mission again, this time you will be met with consequences befitting a traitor."

"Y-Yes, Saskia. You're too good, Miss," Lionel sputtered. "I won't let you down again, honest."

With only a short nod, Saskia turned and brought her attention to the rest of the party. "I want everyone here to remember what it is we fought for: freedom for _all_ in Upper Aedirn," she declared. "The old ways of the lord and serf have no place in our realm. Men are to be judged by their actions alone—regardless of whether they were born in a castle or a sty, reared in a forest or in the mountains."

She paused and smiled faintly when she was met with murmurs of approval.

"Never forget this as we forge ahead: you are all strong, but together we are _stronger_!" she asserted. "It took the combined might of all of us to repel Henselt. It took the combined knowledge and resources of each among us to make this mountain trek possible. And it will take the combined efforts of everyone to make that possibility into a reality. Do not doubt that to be successful, we must rely on each other…not only on ourselves."

There were a few positive responses, from "Too right!" to "Aye, Saskia!"

"With all this said, there's no time to lose," she added. "If it's true that Murivel's citizens burned their own hometown to deny its use to Nilfgaardian invaders, then the foe could be en route. It's been a difficult day for all of us, but before we can spare a thought for rest, we must press on. We'll have our reprieve a few hours northward, at the base of the Kestrel Mountains." She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, ushering them on towards the town's exit, opposite the gate they had come in. "Let's go!"

On her cue, despite their weariness and wounds, everyone ambled on. There was no looking back…save for Lionel, who broke away from the procession one final time to kneel at the perished girl's side. He reclaimed the shirt he'd wrapped her in, and with all the reverence of a temple priest he folded her small hands on her chest and dragged her eyes shut.

Saskia looked on and made no objections.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth and Saskia have a private heart to heart.

**Chapter Eight**

"I must say these travel rations, adequate though they may be, tend to take their toll on one's palate," whinged Tarn, arms wrapped uncomfortably around his torso as he leaned towards the campfire.

"Rrrrrrgh…how do you never tire of your own voice?" Lark groaned in response, sparing Iorveth the trouble as he sat in strained silence. The arrangement had been fair enough—the dwarves supervised Tarn by day, per Saskia's ruling, and when the sun set the burden fell to the Scoia'tael. The elves had enjoyed a reprieve during the few hours travel to the foot of the Kestrel Mountains. They had remained unbothered when the camp was assembled and the team finally stopped to rest. But as soon as darkness had settled in and the fire had been ignited, Zoltan had been only too happy to give up the dwarves' talkative ward for the evening. It seemed even Saskia's mercy had failed to plant a seed of humility in the conceited Aedirnian noble.

"I'm simply making an observation," Tarn continued to Lark. "The mountainous woods draw near, and game is bound to be aplenty even in this late month. In fact, conditions seem ideal for wild boar hunting. Bearing this in mind, I do hope that those infamous Scoia'tael arrows of yours prove capable of piercing more than just monster hides and hapless civilians' hearts, if you take my meaning."

Lark scoffed. "A wild boar? At once, your Lordship," she jeered. "Will you be taking that roasted on a spit, or served in a stew? Perhaps a chalice of wine would please you, too."

"Why such hostility, woman? Surely you must also be hungry."

"Of course I am," she answered. "But unlike you, I don't remember a time I _wasn't_. No one has ever presented _me_ a banquet with a bow and a courtesy. So, I keep my mouth shut and content myself with what I have." With her toe, she prodded the edge of a log on the fire to kindle the flames. "Now why don't you do the same, before I tell Saskia how uncooperative you were in our charge?"

"I assure you, there's absolutely no need for that."

"Good, then shut up."

Tarn bit his lip. "...In any case, I'm certain our Lady would agree—"

"What part of 'shut up' were you unclear on?! Be silent! Say no more! _Thaess aep!_ Shut up!"

Iorveth had had enough. He stood up from the fire, leaving Tarn and Lark to their sparring of words, and wandered to the edge of the campsite. This idle talk of hunting game and of banquets did nothing to feed the refugees awaiting back in Vergen; it only served to further stir the appetites of the already-hungry convoy. But there was another reason he sought a moment's peace: if he had to endure the Count's presence a moment longer, he feared he may break his promise along with the _dh'oine_ 's neck.

Tarn deserved none of the mercy Saskia had shown him. Not after his haughty words in Murivel's smoldering streets. Not after he had all but ordained himself the rightful sire of her future heir. Iorveth knew his kind well enough. He was but another Prince Stennis—of lesser standing, but as self-righteous and bigoted as they come, despite his thinly veiled support of equality.

"Now I believe it's your roll," Saskia's voice issued from elsewhere in the camp. He turned and saw her seated in a circle with the dwarves, their lanterns on a dice poker board. There was a clatter of dice and a round of mirthful laughter from all spectators, plus the victor. With Saskia's back turned and her cloak's hood raised, Iorveth passed on by without her seeing him.

If the unthinkable happened and the Count discovered the Virgin of Aedirn's true nature, there was no doubt his façade would crumble away quickly. The chivalrous hand he extended her now would hold the first stone to be cast at her then. Iorveth abruptly shook his head, refusing to dwell on that disastrous scene.

Saskia had no equal in Upper Aedirn. No one was fit to seek her as his own. No one. Yet the thought of the likes of Tarn setting his sights on her was the most insulting of all. He tightened a fist. If she knew how the noble had spoken in Murivel's streets, would she have still granted him such leniency?

The dirt trail he walked began to incline into the towering first peak of the mountain range. There was a fallen log just off the path—perfect for an evening of solitude and stargazing. As he crossed over to it, he noticed footprints in the path. The blackening sky had made them hard to see from a distance. At close range, however, it was clear they were deep (due to the morning's rain that had dampened the path) and they were numerous.

Perhaps these were the tracks of those who escaped Murivel, he reasoned. They must have passed this way when the rain was heaviest, putting them a rough day ahead of the team. But these concerns could be delayed for a few hours. He propped his bow against the side of the log and settled onto the fallen trunk. His back stretched along the log's length and his arms folded behind his head. His attention was surrendered to the nocturnal opals of the sky.

The tranquility all around tempted him to underscore it with music. It seemed like an eternity since he had made use of his flute, and the last time on the bank near Flotsam was more tactical than recreational, as he recalled. He found himself absentmindedly reaching for the instrument in his effects.

The first notes to a bygone melody drifted into the air. The burdens of the day became silent to his mind. The stillness was a pleasant change. Though he never once regretted his alliance with the forces of Upper Aedirn, it did make these moments of solace rare and few, so he relished them while he could. As he played, his thoughts turned to the olden days when the Aen Seidhe were in their prime—when elves could freely spend their days creating music like this, unfettered by intruding humans.

The song ended, and he rested the flute on his chest. He remembered the unborn elven children on the way back in Vergen, who would become the first in generations to regain the simple joys stolen from their ancestors. There would be no dismal futures as indentured servants, or as perpetual fugitives in the forests, for the young Aen Seidhe of Vergen. They would spend their days learning and applying the arts, and practicing archery and swordplay for sport rather than survival. For that future, no price was too high, and the mild inconveniences brought by this journey were but a token sacrifice.

Footsteps approached him from the campsite, accompanied by a dim lantern light growing brighter as it grew closer. He sat up, partly expecting someone coming to tell him that the dispute between Tarn and Lark had reached disruptive heights while he was gone.

Instead, Saskia's face was lightly silhouetted by the lamplight. She held her Aedirnian shield in front of her defensively, but let it lower as soon as she saw him.

"That was you playing?" she asked.

He stashed the flute away. "I would not have done so, had I thought it may disturb you."

"Disturb me? I'm not one to take offense at the arts, Iorveth," she said. "I just came to investigate, suspecting dryads, and instead I find…well, you continue to surprise me." The lamp's weak glow revealed a faint smile on her face.

Iorveth stood up. "If these mountains were home to dryads, I'd have expected Lark to warn us."

"So you _do_ trust Lark." Her tone was odd, as if confirming something she doubted before. When he gave no reply, Saskia further explained, "She appeared to believe otherwise when we spoke."

"Her garish human tendencies are…distasteful to me, no doubt," he replied flatly. "But she's shown me her impure blood does not sully her dedication to the Scoia'tael cause. I content myself with that."

"Yes." Saskia paused, lowering her arm and bringing her lamp to hip level. It looked as though she was waiting for him to speak. For a moment, he mulled on whether to tell her what Tarn had said to him. At its core, the Count's intent was of no concern to him, and all he may accomplish by bringing up a matter of her personal life was to offend her.

"I'll make this a brief interruption," she finally added, turning back towards the camp. "Let me leave you to your thoughts."

On the other hand, this may be his only opportunity to speak to her in private, and in earnest. "Hold, Saskia," he spoke up.

She stopped and looked back. "What is it?"

He reclaimed his bow and approached her to continue in a muted voice. "It's the Count. In Murivel, there were…things he said out of turn."

She lowered her cloak's hood. "He is known to do that. Like what, exactly?"

_"Our Lady won't live forever; she's only human,"_ he repeated bitterly, pacing a few steps in either direction as he recalled Tarn's conceit. _"What's to become of her legacy if she yields no heir? One day, the Virgin of Aedirn must relinquish her title and choose a worthy suitor, if she expects the free Pontar Valley to survive her."_

Saskia sighed. "He said that to _you_ …one of the most feared enemies of humankind? And in the midst of a burning city, no less?"

"I stayed my hand from him so he may face your judgment," he replied. "But most impertinent of all, in spite of his actions yesterday, he seemed ever confident he was among the 'worthy stock' he refers to. Though he wouldn't admit to it outright."

There was a moment's hesitation. Iorveth glanced away from Saskia into the darkness, suspecting he had said too much.

"…I'm not surprised to hear what Tarn aspires for," she declared at last. "In fact, I imagine he is not the only noble in Upper Aedirn to entertain the very same idea. For the elves, dwarves and human peasantry, a free realm means an end to persecution. But what do you think nobles like Count Marco seek to gain from this domain, with an unmarried woman at its helm and amenable to his charms?"

Iorveth's arms crossed. "I'd give much to see his foolish notions put to rest," he grumbled.

Saskia looked behind her, checking to be sure they were alone, then went on just above a whisper. "What am I to tell him, then? That he's a fine man, but I await a suitor of my own kind to soar down from the sky? Besides, while Tarn's tendencies are—to use your words—distasteful to me, we need his help for now. We rely on his influence and standing to persuade those in Hengfors to barter with us. Let the Count keep his motives…however misguided they may be."

Iorveth also glanced about for prying ears and finding none. "…I'm loath to admit, he had a point," he said. "Your guise has fooled the humans so far. What of the decades to come, when they see you un-aged and without a successor to meet their expectations?"

She cast her eyes to the ground. "…To tell the truth, Iorveth…I've thought about that, and I see no solution yet for it," she confessed. "I can assume no other forms but this to take up my own mantle. And since my father could take on any form, whilst I can take on only one, then it's doubtful that any successor of mine could Polymorph at all. So for now I don't know what will happen, and it troubles me."

He gave a single nod of understanding. "Whatever it takes, we'll not let your legacy become undone," he assured her. "The free Upper Aedirn was founded on an…adapted truth. Perhaps it will take another to thrive."

"Of course. The way forward will reveal itself in time," she agreed. "But for now, our focus is to remain on surviving the winter."

"And so we will."

She lifted the lantern to chest level once more. "I should get back and assure the others there's no danger. Stay awhile longer, if you like," she bade him, then turned to leave.

As Saskia walked across the footprints left by yesterday's travelers, Iorveth's eye was caught by a small glint at her feet-a metallic object on the ground, reflecting the light from the lantern.

"One more thing," she added, pausing to look back. The lamp switched hands, and the glint was gone. "Why did you tell me this now? What Tarn said?" she asked.

He looked back up to her. "The walls have ears even in a caravan," he replied. "I saw no other opportunity to bring up such a confidential subject to you alone."

"…Were you worried about his intentions for me?"

The question caught him off guard. Worried? About a silver-tongued coward's advances on _the Dragonslayer_?

"Affronted, yes, but worried?" He shook his head. "Never. If he tried to act on those intentions he'd find himself as infertile as an elven elder, and by far swifter means."

She chuckled at the choice of words. "Be at ease. You delivered me from a toxic relationship once before. There's no need to make a habit of it."

With that, she left him once more alone with the stars.

**(***)**

The team's departure the next morning started late, after a much needed rest. Custody of Tarn returned to the dwarves, which put a temporary stop to his banter with Lark.

Lionel and Faye, however, provided enough ambient talk in their place. Apparently the peasant had witnessed the sorceress' morning ritual to store The Power in her crystals, and had reacted with the wonderment of a child capturing his first firefly. He followed Faye closely and hounded her with starry-eyed questions.

"What was all them words you said when you made them stones glow like 'at?" he asked while readying his horse.

"An incantation," she replied, climbing atop her own steed sidesaddle and twisting her ash blonde hair around her fingers.

"But what's it mean?"

Her eyes closed. _"O Spirits of Yore, I beseech thee, lend to me thy power to be kept safe away for another day."_

"'How come you don't just say it like that, then?"

"Because then it wouldn't work."

"Why not?"

"The spirits of yore are quite particular in that sense." She smiled in a cryptic way, making it unclear if she was serious.

Iorveth's horse awaited on the other side of the pair, so he passed them by as their conversation continued.

"I bet you wandwavin' lot can make all sorts of things easier with magic," Lionel said, paying no mind to the Scoia'tael commander's presence.

"Magic is just another part of this world. It cannot change the world…only aid in its melding," Faye murmured.

"Can it fix boots, you suppose?" Lionel twisted his heel into the ground. "I don't mean to put no pressure on you, Miss, but this one 'ere's in a bad way, after that beast back in town got 'old of it, so I'd be most obliged."

"I could fix it."

"What sorta incantation would you need for that, then?"

"None. Just a needle and twine."

"Right."

Soon afterward the team was moving again, leaving nothing behind of their campsite but some charred firewood. The distance to the mountain's incline—and the site of Iorveth's retreat the night before—seemed all the shorter on horseback and by daylight. They neared the fallen log, and once again he could make out the tracks of the travelers who passed this way just ahead of them. Only now, by the grace of the sun, he could discern more about who had left them. There were crescent-shaped signs of horseshoes, flanked on each side by the straight lines of a carriage's wheels. There were footprints large enough to belong to a human or elf, smaller ones likely left by dwarves, and the miniscule tracks of a child.

"Well! You know what this means, don't you? By the looks of these tracks, we shall soon discover what became of Murivel's citizens after all," Tarn proudly proclaimed.

"Shut it, Count," grunted Yarpen.

Paying no attention to Tarn's revelation, Iorveth noticed that the child-sized tracks appeared to trail along on their own, unaccompanied by an adult's tracks at their side. True, there had been a street urchin left to perish in the ruins of Murivel, but he would have expected even humans to keep their own children close as they fled the city.

An eerily familiar melody reached Iorveth's ears. He glanced up from the dirt path and followed the sound to Saskia, a few fathoms ahead. Her reigns in hand, her back straight and proud and her attention firmly between the tawny ears of her palomino steed, she was softly humming the very same song he had played in this spot last night. He remembered their talk by the log where, in the faint glow of her lamp, he thought he had spied one of her rare smiles as she realized it was him playing.

He also remembered that the lamp's glow had illuminated something else in this spot during their conversation: a tiny, likely metallic object on the ground.

He scanned the path around him for it. Sure enough, he spotted something reflective at his mount's feet, laying just inches from the child-sized tracks. Composed of multiple interlaying cogs and spurs, it looked like a missing gear to a device of some sort.

"Odd," he remarked to himself.

"What's that, elf?" Zoltan asked. Deep in thought, Iorveth had not even noticed the dwarf in earshot. There had been hostilities between them back in Flotsam to be sure, but those grudges were little more than old scars now—faded by a mutual kinship in Geralt, and of course by the shared victory in Vergen. "What's odd?" pressed Zoltan.

"That bauble, by the child's tracks," Iorveth replied, gesturing towards the spot on the ground. "What could it be, that a fleeing child was carrying it during an escape?"

"Hmm? …Whoa there!" Zoltan halted his own horse and dismounted to pick the object up. After reseating himself in the saddle and trotting forward so as not to slow the caravan down, he looked at his find as though appraising its value.

"Bollocks. This ain't no ordinary bauble," he finally declared. "It's a piece of gnomish machinery, it is—I'd stake my left nut on it. And these 'child's tracks,' as you called 'em, are a gnome's footprints."

"A gnome?" Iorveth looked down to the tiny tracks a final time. That explained the lack of an adult's tracks at their side. Still, he was puzzled. "But what was this gnome doing in Murivel?"

"Well, he didn't inscribe his whole fucking business on this piece of shine, that's fer sure," said Zoltan. "But I've been around enough gnomes in Mahakam to know their handiwork when I see it. This," he waved the gear between his thick fingers, "goes to some sort of complex gnomish machine. Shite, who knows, maybe he was in the middle of buildin' it when all Hell broke loose in town."

"Whatever the device was, it must have been valuable to him, if he bothered to carry it away with him as they fled," Iorveth speculated.

"Except he'll be kickin' himself in the arse now, when he finds out this piece is missing," Zoltan replied. He pocketed the trinket. "Maybe we oughtta keep it. I'll show it to Saskia once we stop, let her decide what to do with it."

"Very well."

As they ventured on, the path leading up into the Kestrel Mountains became steeper and steeper. Occasionally, Iorveth would spot another patch of the previous travelers' footprints wherever the ground was wet enough. He was more mired in unanswered questions now than ever. First, a spellcaster hiding amongst the ranks of bandits, and now a gnome building an unknown machine in a town right before it burned.

His intuition whispered to him that the small Vergeni party was walking into something very big.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troll trouble.

**Chapter Nine**

The flurry that dusted the convoy as they neared the first snow-capped mountain peak should have been foreboding, yet Saskia found it calming and tranquil. The snowflakes fluttered down through the frigid air, coming to a delicate rest on the mountain trail and on the adjoining evergreen bristles. Atop her palomino at the front of the company, the dragoness found herself shedding her cloak hood to feel the icy particles pattering on her face and hair. The coolness was refreshing to her flushed cheeks.

"Oi, how are you not freezin' like the rest of us, Saskia?" grunted Yarpen. She turned in her saddle to survey her fellowmen. Some of the Scoia'tael had removed the trademark scarves from around their waists and donned them on their heads and shoulders. The dwarves puffed steam breath into their gloved hands and rubbed them together briskly.

Tarn blew his nose subtly into a linen handkerchief, which he then tucked away into his pocket. "Why, your cheeks, Lady…they seem almost alight," he remarked nasally, his nose a sore red. "I hope and trust you haven't come down with fever?"

Saskia brushed her own cheek, faintly feeling its warmth through her glove. "No, no fever," she assured the Count. "I've always been warm-natured; it's nothing to worry yourself about." With that, she repositioned the hood on her head and returned her attention to the path before her. She silently warned herself to avoid any more questions about her resilience to the cold. If the real cause for it were discovered, she was unable to say what she dreaded more: banishment from the friends and comrades she had come to value in the Pontar Valley, or the ruination of the harmony she and her father worked tirelessly to build. Both were two sides of the same coin.

_The way forward will reveal itself in time,_ she repeated in her mind. _In time_.

The footprints left by the fleeing citizens of Murivel had provided a constant guide so far. Even after the mud gave way to solid soil, the tracks in the snow marked the course of the previous travelers. Saskia wondered if her party would eventually meet the refugees—and if and when that meeting occurred, she wondered how they would be received. If there was one thing her time under Philippa's influence had taught her, it was to leave as little as possible to chance and to turn any situation into an advantage…though she refused to comply with her former advisor's amoral methods. As she rode along, she mentally prepared a response for every possible outcome. Whether Murivel's people saw them as allies united against the Empire, foes composed of nonhumans and other dregs of society, or a simple trader caravan, Saskia would leave nothing to chance.

However, it seemed Philippa Eilhart's level of cunning remained ever beyond the Virgin of Aedirn's grasp, for just as the sun was beginning to set, the team encountered something she had not predicted.

"Whoa!" She pulled the reigns to bring her mount to a halt, her followers stopping just short behind her. There was a fork in the path. The way left snaked between some evergreen trees and out of sight. The way right saw the trees thinning and becoming replaced by jagged rock faces.

The tracks of Murivel's people gave no indication as to which way to go, as there were impressions in the snow on both paths. The refugees had split up here.

Saskia glanced at her map, but it did no good. As Lark had stated before, this map's maker was clearly no elf and therefore unaware of this path's existence. The Murivel citizens themselves likely only learned of it after the destruction of the Scoia'tael unit that once inhabited these parts. "Lark?" she called back to the half-elf Squirrel towards the end of the procession. "This was part of your former commando's territory, was it not?"

"Yes, it was. I recognize this place well enough," Lark said.

"Where do these paths lead?"

Lark ushered her dapple gray horse towards the front to look at the crossroads more closely. "The route to the right leads into a cave, which cuts through the mountain and emerges on the other side. We tried using it as a weapon cache, but the nekker swarms became too aggressive and numerous, so we had to abandon it," she recalled.

Saskia's eyes veered towards the right-hand path in trepidation. The thought of a dark cave and feral nekkers at the end of that path brought to mind the grave images from her recurring nightmare. She shuddered slightly, then tried in vain to tell herself it was just the chilly wind.

"The route to the left leads to the top of this mountain," Lark continued. "At this time of the year the bears will be hibernating, so as long as we don't disturb them or their cubs, they shouldn't threaten us. The wolves may be a problem, though, if they're hungry enough. …And then there's the trolls."

"Trolls are preferable to nekkers," said Saskia. "Their speech may be crude, but they can be reasoned with."

"Lark speaks of _mountain_ trolls," voiced Iorveth. Saskia turned, just now noticing that he had ridden up beside her from the back of the caravan. "The trolls that we know best are those who yielded to human dominance, filling the roles of bridge-keepers and toll collectors, earning coin and squandering it on drink," he explained. "But much like elves, trolls who refused the _dh'oine's_ yoke were forced to earn their keep in the wilds. Mountain trolls in particular are difficult to approach."

"And if we simply explain ourselves—assure them that we don't seek their subordination?" Saskia asked.

Iorveth shook his head. "Isolated from other sentient races, their knowledge of Common Speech is poor even by troll reckoning. With this language barrier in place, they are more prone to misjudge the intents of an intruder, and more likely to react with hostility."

Saskia pursed her lips and looked back to the party. "I suppose it would be foolish to ask if anyone here speaks the troll tongue," she posed.

No one did.

"I always thought trolls just grunted and belched a lot," Lionel said.

Saskia returned her gaze to the split in the tracks they had been following. "Looks like the host from Murivel split up here. Why is this?"

"It makes not a damn lick of sense," Yarpen grumbled. "They bugger off out of a town in flame, run for the hills, then go their own swiving ways? You'd think they see the good sense of strength in numbers. Particularly in hostile environs, like a range of blistering cold mountains."

"Good sense don't always enter the equation when you got humans in a state of crisis with nonhumans, trying to make a go of it," Zoltan remarked. "…Present company excluded," he quickly added, casting an eye to the convoy.

"And here we are again," Tarn complained. "As always, the humans must be painted as the irrational ones, placing pride over survival. It seems abundantly clear—"

The others would have to remain unenlightened as to what seemed abundantly clear, since Tarn's sentence ended in an abrupt sneeze and another honk of his nose into his handkerchief.

"Zoltan is partly correct. The host _did_ part ways over some dispute," Iorveth assessed. He dismounted and walked towards the middle of the crossroads, scrutinizing the tracks in the snow.

Saskia watched him, curious to hear what some imprints in the earth told The Woodland Fox whilst they remained mute to her.

"There are two opposing sets of tracks here," he went on, indicating the prints. "They slide forward and back, suggesting a struggle. There's no telling if the dispute first broke out here, or simply boiled over after a day's worth of seething. Nor is there any telling the subject of the quarrel."

"These people were homeless and on the run," said Saskia. "Anything could have riled them: which way to go, who was at fault for the town's destruction, or even who would lead them."

"That riddle's solution may have to remain beyond our reach," Iorveth replied. "After the quarrel, the migrants divided almost down the middle. Half took the trail to the left, the other half went right."

"The poor bastards who ran into the mountain trolls aren't doing us any favors," Yarpen said. "Now the big bruisers will surely be on their guard for more intruders, wielding boulders with bits of fresh Redanian skull stuck to them."

"The ones who went looking for shelter in the nekker cave aren't much better off," Lark added. Again Saskia willed away the grisly visions from her dream.

"The cave is out of the question," Tarn declared. "Even if we had ramps to get our quarry across the chasms and jutted rocks-"

"Magic has its ways," Faye cut in.

"…I'm sure," Tarn responded. "But even if we passed through the cave on a bridge of rainbows and amethyst dust, my father's horses would still be easy prey for a swarm of ravenous necrophages."

"Not gonna disagree with you on that one, Count," Zoltan conceded. "But a team trudging up a steep mountain incline is like a caged animal next to the likes of an enraged troll with boulders to spare."

"There are sure to be vantage points for the trolls to hurl boulders from as we climb further up," Iorveth cautioned.

Tarn gave his nose another wipe. "I concede neither option is ideal," he said. "However, it is ultimately the route Lady Saskia favors that we shall pursue, is it not?"

Once more, all eyes were on Saskia, waiting for her decision. This was not like the monumental choice to go to war with Kaedwen. It was a simple question of left or right—each bringing them a step closer to their destination, each with its own dangers. But also unlike the decision to go to war, she lacked a unified support from her followers to assure her that her choice was right. She must trust her own instincts…and there was no mistaking which way they steered.

"Count Marco speaks the truth," she proclaimed. "A cave beset by rotf—ah, _nekkers_ is no practical route for a caravan, nor a team of horses.

"Thank you, Lady. I was sure you'd see it my way," the Count beamed, followed immediately by a sniffle.

"But Zoltan and Iorveth are correct as well—we cannot parade merrily into the trolls' den. We must approach carefully," she continued. "We shall stick to the left path, but stay on your guard, and above all…be mindful of falling rocks."

Iorveth reclaimed his mount. "We trust your judgment, whatever it may be," he told Saskia over his shoulder. She detected something unsettling in his voice, but didn't question him. Nor did she dwell on it when she saw him exchange a few hushed, passing words with Zoltan on the way to the back of the procession.

They pushed on towards the path snaking through the evergreen trees. While she was no tracker like the Scoia'tael commander, Saskia herself could see the straight lines left by their predecessors' wagon wheels, offering her some reassurance that she had chosen the better route for their own cargo.

The cold wind's bite intensified as they made their way higher, its howl the only sound to be heard. Through the trees Saskia could see glimpses of the deep incline down the mountainside, followed by a vast expanse of the Redanian landscape below. The land was bathed in the shadows of dusk, and though from their elevation they could still see the sun, from the ground below it would be long hidden beneath the horizon by now.

"Good girl…we'll have you in a blanket and in front of a fire soon enough," she heard Lark cooing to her mare, followed by a pat of the dapple gray's flank. The half-elf's voice was tremulous, and her teeth chattered. Saskia listened closely and discovered that nearly all of the company was shivering, and heaving in deep breaths of the thin mountain air.

They were freezing, while she barely felt the sting of the dropping temperature at all.

She turned back to them. "The night is only going to get colder," she warned them. "But it may give us an advantage, too; if we find the mountain trolls asleep, we may pass them by without any confrontation. Dismount and walk in huddles if you must, or blow your breath into your hands for warmth. But remain quiet, lest we risk waking them."

The dwarves and Scoia'tael both cast their gazes upon Tarn, who for once didn't speak. For a few more minutes the only sound was hooves crunching in the snow, steam-laden breaths into cupped hands, and the howling wind.

Then another howling sound accompanied the wind. It seemed fairly distant, but grew louder and louder as they crept along.

"Is that a sound trolls make?" asked Lionel.

"Aye," affirmed Yarpen. "One that's either having a bloody nightmare, or else in the throes of a vigorous mating session."

"Or in pain," said Faye.

Before Saskia could instruct them again to stay quiet, a loud squawk overhead made it impossible to do so. She looked up to find three harpies winging their way down from the treetops and cliff faces, talons poised at the travelers.

Her first impulse told her to Polymorph and devour the winged nuisances who had ruined their element of surprise, but as always she restrained herself. Maybe the trolls had not yet heard. She spun around and gestured at the elves to shoot the creatures. Despite numb, frigid fingers their bows aimed true. They managed to pierce several wings and all three of the harpies tumbled out of flight. Still on horseback, Saskia drew her sword and swung low to slash through the repugnant face of one of the monsters before it could emit any more of its loud screeches.

Her horse reared and she held tight to the reigns as a second harpy was engulfed in flame. The final harpy shuffled back on its birdlike feet, but soon fell prey to an arrow directly in its neck. Saskia turned back, unsurprised to find a trail of smoke clinging to the air from Faye's direction and a bow still poised by Iorveth.

A nod of approval to the two served in place of a "Good shot," and she turned her attention back up the trail. The animalistic howls had ceased, replaced by ominous silence. She mulled for a moment for what to do next.

The decision was made for her when a rumble overhead seized the crew's attention. A lone boulder—smaller than a wagon but larger than one of its wheels—clamored down the mountainside. It ricocheted off the trees in its path, bringing a small scattering of rock rubble in its wake. Despite the boulder's helter-skelter route, the convoy provided many stationary targets it could collide with…and the one it seemed to be heading for was the mule's supply cart.

"Watch out!" Saskia ordered, but to no avail. The supply cart was caged by the cargo wagon carrying the ore to the front, the horseback sorceress and the Scoia'tael cavalry to the back. Despite the cart's driver frantically slapping the reigns, he could go nowhere.

The boulder came to a sudden halt a mere fathom from the cart, as though frozen in time. The bits of rubble pecked harmlessly at the wheels of the cart and hooves of the mule, while the largest rock remained still and sparked with orange tendrils of power.

_Faye again_ , Saskia realized, glimpsing the spellcaster as she concentrated to keep the boulder suspended in place. Unsure of how long this spell would hold, Saskia waved her arm urgently to usher her men after her. "Onward! Quickly!"

The procession—save for Faye—hurried on. Once they were out of the boulder's path, the sorceress relinquished her spell. Without the momentum it had gained tumbling down the hill, the stone simply came to a rest on the trail, which Faye had to ride cautiously around to rejoin the others.

"Bloody hell, that was close!" exclaimed Yarpen.

Saskia watched behind her. Going back would be much more difficult now. True, the boulder was a manageable size, and it could be cleared away along with the rubble so the wagon and cart could pass. But each second they spent doing so would leave them open to whatever opposed their presence up above.

She set her sights ahead. "Keep moving forward!" she instructed. "Now! Before the way ahead becomes blocked, too!"

Their hoofbeats quickened on the trail. Another rumble loomed overhead. Saskia just barely seized back on her reigns in time to avoid being bowled over by another stone, so close in front of her that she could see its moss. This stone was slightly bigger than the last, and rolled right on across the trail and down the mountain on the opposite side. Without a moment's breath, she dug her heels into her horse's sides and lashed the reigns to break into a gallop once more.

There was another shrill, unwelcome cawing sound as the party disturbed another flock of harpies. Two of the avian pests clawed at the edges of Saskia's cloak and at her horse's mane. She cursed and again swung her sword to swat them away. They tumbled to the ground, but were far from dead. There was no time to finish them off with the ever-present threat of a rockslide, so she simply rode ahead, sword still drawn, leaving it to the dwarves directly behind her to trample the creatures.

"Did it not occur to you to mention the bird women on this trail, elf?!" Tarn called over the commotion.

"There were none here before!" Lark shot back. "They always stayed near human settlements, and now that Murivel is burned the nearest mountain village is at least a week away!"

Five more harpies flew down to barricade the way ahead. Saskia drew her breath to give an order, but it seemed Iorveth already had the same order in mind.

"Don't delay to kill!" his commanding voice issued from the back. "Shoot them fast and keep moving!"

The whiz of arrows darted over Saskia's head and fell on the harpies like rain. They collapsed onto the trail.

"Rock! Rock!" bellowed Lionel. Saskia whirled around to see another boulder threatening to collide with the convoy. This time, there was a mighty rushing sound as a telekinetic force shot from Faye's hands. As though from a sling, the boulder sprang off its course at a sharp angle, rolling furiously in front of Saskia and crushing some of the grounded harpies before teetering off the trail.

"Sorry…" Faye uttered from behind.

"No harm done!" Saskia assured her, then slapped the flat edge of her sword against her horse's flank to urge it on.

The top of the mountain inched nearer and nearer. The arrows of the Scoia'tael and the hooves of Saskia's and the dwarves' mounts deterred the harpies. Saskia remained ever aware of the fray behind her, of various shouts to warn of falling rocks and of Faye's spells to deflect the rocks as they fell. She was unable to make herself look back, her attention focused steadfastly on the way ahead. Soon, she could see an end to the incline. For a brief moment she caught sight of a large brutish head looking down on them, then retreating from sight.

The very mountain seemed to shake with the turbulent sound that followed. Saskia looked up the remaining expanse of mountainside. Her eyes widened when she saw not one, but a _multitude_ more stones cascading down. Some were even big enough to fell the trees in their way. The snow atop the branches stirred as the trees fell, adding a small blizzard to the chaos. In a few moments, the team would be swallowed whole.

She longed to shed her human guise and protect the party with her true, great girth while they made their escape. The massive rocks were like marbles before a dragon's thick scaly hide. But if she did, it would no longer be the rockslide that frightened them the most, and they would still be lost. As always, she strove to lead them in the best way possible as the human peasant girl ascended to queen they had come to rely on.

"Go! Go! Go!" she hollered.

The monumental crashing of landscape drowned out the screams and the frenzy of hoofbeats. Saskia could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her chest, along with her stallion's deep snorts as it ran for its and its rider's life.

_Just get to the top. Think of nothing but getting to the top,_ Saskia instructed herself, holding tightly to the wildly galloping animal. "Don't look back! Forge ahead!" she shouted, if only to encourage them. She was unsure if they even heard.

Somewhere in the back, another horse gave a panicked bellow, accompanied by a human cry.

"NO!"

It was a female voice, but Saskia dared not turn to see if it was Faye or Lark…or if either was still among them.

_The top. The top. The top!_

The cold wind stung her eyes so sharply that she squinted. Each breath became more and more strained from the altitude. Only now did she notice how dark it had become, for she could scarcely see but a few paces in front of her.

Finally, the tempest settled. The crashing of rocks, trees and snow subsided. The incline had leveled. They reached the top of the first peak in the Kestrel Mountain range.

Saskia looked back and was overcome with relief. The supply cart and wagon were miraculously intact. A quick, mental headcount revealed no one missing, though the faces she met were at best haggard, at worst bewildered from their brush with death. And she saw now the cause for the female scream.

Lark lay on her belly, strewn across the back of Iorveth's horse. Her dapple gray mare was nowhere to be found.

"The ice…" she stammered. "She slipped…I-I couldn't…"

"Keep your wits, Lark, or I may regret this," Iorveth said simply.

"…Yes. …S _quass'me,_ " she apologized, sliding down onto her feet and looking back to the wreckage morosely.

The battered crew looked deeply in need of regrouping and, perhaps, some of Saskia's charismatic brand of encouraging words. But now was no time for either. With the peril of the rockslide now behind them, they stood in the shadow of another.

The brutish head Saskia had spied on the way up was now lumbering towards them, silhouetted in the light of a campfire. It differed little from the trolls of lower elevation, apart from the thick growth of ashen hair that seemed to begin as a beard and then expand along the beast's massive arms.

Several swords sang their opening chorus behind Saskia as they were unsheathed, but she held up a hand to postpone their attack. A quick glance around the troll's home revealed the wrecked remains of a carriage, a spit over the fire, and a variety of meat she chose not to dwell on. There were numerous piles of rocks positioned around the perimeter like watchtowers, and there was a towering, ramshackle wall of rocks serving as a lean-to in the center.

Under the lean-to was a smaller troll, laying on the side in what appeared to be an uneasy sleep. Ever so often the sleeping troll would stir, whimpering. Saskia predicted this was the one they had heard howling, and that Faye's guess of it being in pain was correct.

"If you can understand me," she stated loudly and plainly to the larger troll approaching them, "then tell me why you sought- _tried_ to crush us."

The behemoth made no reaction, apart from eyeing the blades still drawn.

"Give the word, Saskia, and any part of this boor that can bleed will bleed dry," Iorveth prodded from the rear of the cavalcade. His contempt was palpable, and Saskia could tell he desired the troll's death. But she would not allow bloodshed until no other option existed.

"Sheathe your weapons," she commanded. "Show him that we don't wish to fight." On cue, every sword returned to its sheath. She continued to face the troll earnestly. "We want no fight with you," she said slowly. "We want no fight. We only want to go."

Again, no reply.

There was a noisy honk into a handkerchief. "Please, Lady, allow me," offered Tarn. "In your good sense, you did enlist me as your ambassador for these very dilemmas."

"Your silver tongue does us no good here," Saskia told the Count. "He won't understand."

"Ah, but there are ways of communication that transcend language," he persisted. "If I can be counted upon to bargain with a nation, surely I can be counted upon to bargain with a troll."

"…Very well," she deferred. At best, the eager emissary would manage a resolution, and at worst he would provoke the troll to attack, granting Iorveth the slaughter he coveted after all.

Tarn stepped forward, his head level with the troll's imposing chest. He looked up to meet the creature's eyes. "Greet…ings," he enunciated loudly and slowly, accompanied by an exaggeratedly broad wave of his hand. "We." A gesture towards the group. "Seek." A placement of his hand like a visor over his brow. "No." A shake of his head and a sweeping apart of his hands. "Fight." A pounding of his fist into an open palm.

The troll promptly replicated the last gesture…with the slight variation of Tarn's face instead of a palm. The noble rolled onto his back, sputtering, clutching at his nose as it leaked red.

Lark snorted in the back and muttered something in Elder Speech. Saskia understood only the bare minimum of the language, as it wasn't among the lessons her father bestowed before leaving her younger self to her own devices. Still, she gathered the half-elf had said something like "Just what we all hoped for."

The troll must have understood her too, for he responded over Tarn's groans with a choppy sentence of guttural words, all in Elder Speech as well.

Saskia was stunned—first to hear the thing speak at all, and second to hear a language usually spoken with a poetic and elitist air by elves now rasped from the throat of a brute. Suddenly, it made sense. Iorveth had said mountain trolls were less versed in Common Speech even than their bridge-dwelling cousins, but it appeared that after decades of estrangement in the mountains, fragments of the old language still remained on their tongues. "What did he say?" she asked Lark.

"Word for word, it would translate to _'Aim good not. Human big mouth hole missed,'_ " Lark replied.

"You bight 'ave tried dat _before,_ don' you dink?!" howled Tarn, clutching his nose and writhing onto his side to glare at Lark.

"Why? Saskia enlisted _you_ for these very dilemmas," she echoed.

"Enough," Saskia instructed them. "Lark, ask the troll why he attacked us with the boulders."

The Squirrel came forward—deliberately stepping over Tarn on the way—and relayed the question to the troll. There was a garble of archaic words in response. Finally, Lark turned back.

"He said humans hurt his mother. He was trying to stop us from attacking her again."

Saskia glanced at the smaller troll lying on its side further away. "Then tell him the times are changing," she prompted. "Humans are no longer masters of the realm. We come from a land where everyone is equal and no matter what other humans may have done, we intend no harm."

Again Lark translated. The troll issued its coarse variant of Elder Speech once more. He pointed at Faye with a menacing look at one point in mid-sentence.

"He said it was someone like _her,_ " she went on with a wave towards Faye, "but with 'skin on head top.'"

"The very same sorceress from the forest trail ambush," Iorveth remarked. "Lily, the last bandit called her. She had hair cut to the scalp, according to his description."

"She used 'big boom light' (that is, magic) to make a tree fall on his mother," Lark explained. "While he and his brothers were trying to free her, more humans came with their 'sharp sticks' (I suppose, swords). He and his brothers fought them all off. Some of the humans ran, some are…well, you can see for yourself." She eyed the spit on the fire. "Afterwards, the trolls picked the big tree up together and hurled it down the mountainside to free their mother. The brothers are out looking for firewood and food (well, _more_ food) and he stayed behind to care for his wounded mother. And protect her from more intruders."

"See to it that he understands we have no connection to the sorceress who did this," Saskia instructed. "Say that we wish to leave him and his brothers to tend their mothers' wounds undisturbed. If we're allowed to continue in peace, we will be indebted."

Lark fulfilled her role as a conduit between culture and crudeness once more.

"…Maybe I shouldn't have used the word 'indebted,'" she confessed afterward. "He said, 'Debt no good. Maybe no you more see.' Then he asked that we give him medicine to help treat his mother, and food so they can feed her through winter. The…uh…meat here will fill her and the sons' bellies for awhile, but winter's only just begun and rations are thinning. Give him those two things, and then we can be on our way."

"Medicine, we can surely offer." Saskia turned. "Faye, you still have your herb-treated bandages, do you not?"

"From the final breath of the phantom beast, I may craft more," Faye mumbled, head to the ground. Slowly she looked up. "I have its tongue and saliva in my pouch." With this cryptic announcement, she set about making necessary bandages, using large and thick cloth for the old she-troll's hide.

"But as for food, Lark, explain to him that we too are limited and we cannot…" Saskia trailed off. "On second thought, Lark, tell him he'll find his share if he and his brothers dig through the rockslide. There will be fallen harpies to add to their diet…and there will be a…"

"…Yes, I know what else they'll find," Lark finished tersely, looking back sadly at the steep path they'd taken. As she translated this offer for the troll, Saskia understood what human tendencies of hers Iorveth had found distasteful. She kept her eyes closed, her voice soft and unwavering save for a falter here and there.

The troll made a reply.

"He agrees," Lark said. "We can go."

"I want it known that I find it completely reprehensible, the thought of these brutes eating one of the Marco family horses," Tarn grumbled, after having crawled safely out of fist's reach of the troll and back onto the wagon.

As they began their crossing to the other side of the mountain, Faye laid the charmed bandages at the side of the sleeping old she-troll, then tiptoed back to her horse without making a sound.

A forceful hand fell on Saskia's shoulder as she passed the troll. She looked up to discover an animal's jawbone in his grip, a length of string tied to either end, which he nudged at her with a coarse series of grunted words. "What is this?" she asked, the question for the troll but her eyes upon Lark.

"A piece of a mountain goat's skull," the Squirrel explained. "He's giving us a sign for his brothers. He'll tell them we're not foes, and if we meet them, showing this will prove it."

Saskia took it with a courteous nod to the troll. As they approached the decline opposite the way they'd come up, she handed it to Lark. "…I believe you should be its bearer," she said. "Without your intervention, this would have ended in a much less favorable way…as would any later encounters with the troll's brothers."

Lark took it humbly. "The elves have a saying," she replied. " _Ayd f'haeil moen Hirjeth taenverde._ "

"And that means?"

"Conquer with courage rather than strength."

**(***)**

Not far down the other side of the mountain, fortune seemed to favor them even further, because less than an hour after leaving the troll's lair behind they arrived at a great uprooted tree….possibly the one that was hurled from the mountaintop by the trapped she-troll's dutiful sons. Its roots conveniently laid vertical to the ground, creating a makeshift lean-to just off the path. This was the surest shelter they would find from the wind and snow, so without hesitation the shivering party constructed a hasty camp to spend the remainder of the night.

As she watched them settle in, Saskia felt an ember of pride for her team. There were times they seemed unlikely choices for this mission, but tonight they had surpassed her expectations. Though she would never know for sure if the troll's summit had really been a better choice of route than the cave, she was doubly assured her men would follow her, whichever way they went, and valiantly face the obstacles laid before them.

"Oi, got a moment Saskia?" Zoltan asked.

"Several, it would appear," she replied. "What is it?"

"It may be nothing, but I figured I should make ye aware nonetheless." The dwarf sat beside her, rummaged in his pocket and produced a small, yet complex metal trinket. "This here is a component to some gnomish machine. "Ol' Iorveth and I found it at the mountain's base."

She took it and examined it between her thumb and forefinger.

"Now I'm not for sure what it goes to," Zoltan continued. "But I'm pretty sure it belonged to one of the Murivel refugees. A gnome, at that, and possibly one of the engineering types. Doesn't seem too likely the poor fellow's amongst the living anymore."

She nodded. "If the trolls didn't bring his demise, then the nekkers in the cave may very well have."

"Aye, Iorveth made mention of that to me at the crossroads," said Zoltan. "Like I said, it may be beyond us now. But I meant to bring it to your attention before the day's turn of events, so there seemed no harm it doing it regardless."

"What do you wish to do with it?" asked Saskia, handing the trinket back.

"Lark mentioned a mountain village somewhere in this pile of rocks," Zoltan replied. "I figure if the Murivel refugees had any destination in mind, that'd be the place. That's not to suggest we should go out of our way, of course. But if a twist of fate ends up putting us near that village, well…I'd aim to see if the gnome had a partner, a relative or someone there. Who knows, they might have a use for the bit of scrap, or at least want to hang onto it for sentimental reasons. Seems like the right thing to do."

Again, she nodded. "We cannot afford to alter our course in search of the village. But should we find ourselves near to it, then by all means, give the trinket to anyone there who may express a desire for it. It's got nothing to do with us, and perhaps it may be useful to—or treasured by—a survivor of the late gnomish refugee."

"Right, then," Zoltan agreed, getting back up to join the rest of the team.

That had seemed to Saskia the easiest decision of the day.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth has doubts about Saskia.

**Chapter Ten**

The firewood gathered by Lionel Hix for that night's campsite was moist from the snow, of course. But with a little coaxing from Faye's fire magic, it burned well enough for the team to warm their bones. Iorveth gladly allowed the flames' heat to saturate his cold, wet gloves while he reflected on the events of the night.

The climb to the summit had been treacherous, and not without drawbacks. Lark now sat with her head hung low, having barely spoken since the remains of her mare were offered to sate the appetites of trolls. Even her bickering with the Count had reached a standstill. Regardless, the climb had not been a fruitless effort. So long as Lark bore the jawbone trinket, they needn't fear aggression from other local mountain trolls. Also, if they had traversed the cave, Iorveth wouldn't have learned that the one called "Lily" was still somewhere ahead of them.

The rogue sorceress in bandit's clothing was an oddly-shaped puzzle piece whose place in the grand picture still eluded him. All mages had their own agenda—he was wary enough already of the day Faye of Ban Ard's deeper intentions were revealed. He could scantly guess at what motivated this unknown mage to crush an old she-troll under a fallen tree.

Nevertheless, after the team's tangle with the she-troll's son, these few hours of respite seemed their due. For a dark and silent hour, it appeared all was peaceful. That is, until the travelers were well warmed and began turning their thoughts to sleep.

"Lark, douse the fire," Iorveth ordered. Wordlessly, the half-elf Squirrel got up to smother the flames in dirt. She was halted, however, by a complaint from the humans' direction.

"Cor, it's colder'n a bruxa's tit out tonight," Lionel shivered, rubbing his hands together vigorously. He cast a meek glance at Iorveth. "Why can't we leave the fire burnin' until morning? Makes breakfast a mite easier, don't it?"

"Because…" The single word seemed to barely seep through the clench of the elf's teeth. "The firewood is damp, and damp wood gives smoke. We'd be alerting every monster, bandit and mage for miles to our location."

Lionel bit his tongue and said no more. Others weren't so compliant.

"You'll have to explain to me this…what I must assume is your own brand of elven logic," Tarn cut in, standing up to position himself between Lark and the fire, still eyeing Iorveth. His voice was nasal from the strips of cloth wedged in his nose to stop the bleeding from the troll's punch. "Isn't the very purpose of having a night watch to repel such intruders?"

Iorveth was starting to believe that teaching humans to survive the elements was more futile than teaching minnows to breathe air. "We place two men on watch throughout the night to alert the others if trouble finds us," he said. "It's another matter entirely to _invite_ trouble while we rest."

"That was well and good in the fields below, but these are the mountains," Tarn protested. "I only have one woolen blanket on hand, and it's utterly wet from snow."

"Mine got holes in it from one of the harpies' talons," complained another human in Tarn's entourage, whose name Iorveth neither caught nor sought.

A downcast Lark looked up and opened her mouth. Perhaps she meant to scold the ignorant _dh'oine_ on underestimating the very wilds they had once condemned the Aen Seidhe to. Instead she closed her mouth and lowered her gaze once more to the cinders.

"You must see that it won't do to travel with a party suffering from influenza," Tarn reasoned. "We just aren't accustomed to—"

"Your comfort is not our concern, Count, nor that of your people," sneered Iorveth. "Did you think the winds and snow would yield to your whims like the farmhands of your estate? We continue our camping practices as they have been: a fire at dusk and dawn, to be snuffed out all other times. Now stand aside or I will have you restrained."

"I will not be ordered about by thieving, cutthroat riff-raff," declared the Count, his hands on his hips and his stuffed nose pointed high. "You, your men and their arrows may have turned the tides on King Henselt, but that hardly reverses the horrors you've wrought on humankind for generations. Nor does it give you the right to issue commands to those you so readily hunted not one season past."

"No, it doesn't." Saskia's voice quenched the rising conflict as she strode forth to join the group. "I, however, do."

All eyes were drawn to her. Tarn blinked. "Milady?"

The waning firelight flickered on Saskia's face, creating exaggerated dark circles under her eyes. It was clear to Iorveth she had little patience or energy for this squabble, but as always she dispelled it with her commanding words.

"As we left Vergen, I tasked Iorveth with the protection of this convoy as we scale these peaks," she went on. "There are none within these ranks better suited for this than one who called the forests home for decades. You will defer to Iorveth in matters of survival. Heed his vast lifetime's worth of experience, as though his orders were coming from me directly. You have one mark of insubordination on your head already, Count Marco. Do not test me for another."

"…Anything you say, Lady. I know better than to question your authority," Tarn murmured, indignantly standing aside. With him no longer in the way, Lark set about extinguishing the fire.

"It's not all bad, Count," remarked Zoltan as the dark of night began to creep upon them, bringing with it a stinging cold. "If you get chilly or lonely tonight, you know just the lady to keep you warm."

Tarn looked where Zoltan indicated, only to find he meant none other than the supply cart mule. Some of the dwarves laughed.

"That's a he," an unamused Tarn replied, which only increased their laughter.

"No more of this now, gentlemen," Saskia bade them firmly. "Night watchmen, to your posts. The rest, to your tents. Good night."

The group began to disperse. Iorveth caught Saskia stifling a weary yawn as she retired to her tent. Before the tent flap had fully reclosed she had already untied her hair, letting it fall freely upon her neck and shoulders. Soon after came the sound of her many armor plates clanging onto the ground as they were shed one by one. At last, in total privacy she gave a long overdue yawn amplified by a groan, no doubt stretching her freshly unyoked figure. He found himself wishing if only for a moment to join in her reprieve from the burdens of leadership. But that was not a privilege he could yet allow himself.

"Listen, you hear that?" Zoltan spoke up from across the campsite. "Wolves."

Sure enough, there was a pack howling not too far in the distance.

"They may be hunting," Lark said. "We should see that they don't come after…the horses."

"We will stay up awhile longer," Iorveth declared, ever mindful of his priority as the party's protector. "If the howls grow faint, we'll know the pack has ventured on. If they grow louder, we'll ready the rest to defend against their fangs."

"Ye think just because us dwarves' ears are shorter, that we're any less able to hear that yowlin' racket?" Yarpen insisted. "We'll sit up for a spell, too. I'm not about to be taken by dreams when a good fight and a new fur pelt may be heading my way." Resolute, he sat down on a log and began to sharpen his axe head dramatically with a rock.

"Yarpen Zigrin. Trader, merchant…and now, fur collector?" mused Zoltan, leaning against a tree nearby. "Fancies himself a jack of all ploughin' trades, this one."

"You know as well as I that no sooner do we sit our arses down in the Cauldron back in Vergen than Skalen Bloody Burdon starts looking to squeeze us for new dice poker prizes," Yarpen retorted. "Couldn't call myself a man if I didn't bring back a trophy or two to put that old gleam in the lad's eye, could I?"

"Shh!" hissed Lark. "Do you two want to draw the wolves right to us with your voices?"

"Fret not, Lass," Zoltan assured her. "None of us have bathed in nigh a week now. Those beasts' noses will smell the drowner corpses from the riverbank on us before they hear a word we say."

Iorveth sat against the great uprooted tree under whose roots they camped. Unlike the ill-prepared humans, he was largely unaffected by the temperature. The multiple layers of armor he wore afforded enough warmth for a late autumn night, even one on a frost-laden mountain. Once Velen gave way to Saovine and the winter blizzards set in, he'd be as vulnerable to the elements as the next. But for now, he endured the climate just as he had endured sleeping on the cold stone slabs of the cave near Flotsam.

He listened intently to the wolves' howls, assessing their proximity to the camp. It seemed they were slowly but gradually moving away. He looked back to those who remained awake—his Scoia'tael on the right-hand side of the fire ashes, and the dwarves on the left. Growing drowsy as the night dragged on, he noted that the humans remained safely sleeping in their tents, while the nonhumans stayed up to guard them. Furthermore, it struck him as amusing that for once, they did this by choice.

(***)

He was unaware that sleep had claimed him until he woke in the morning to the instinctive feeling of being watched. With the reflexes honed by years of combat, he seized his sword hilt a fraction of a second before realizing the one who watched him was Faye. She sat cross-legged just beyond reach of him. When she saw the weapon being drawn, she gasped and brought up her crossed arms to hide her face.

"Stop cowering, _daerienn_ ," he grumbled, pointing the blade at her. "Killing you would be stupid, so long as you are our only means back to Vergen. But for your own sake, do not catch me by surprise like that again." He sheathed his sword and stood up with a stretch of his back.

Faye lowered her arms hesitantly. "I was only waiting for you to awake. I'd…I'd like to conduct my ritual there today." She gestured to the spot where he stood.

He looked around the immediate area dubiously. He saw nothing remarkable about the place, save for a few mushrooms peering out of the snow with icicles dripping from their caps. "Why here, specifically?" he asked.

"It's a fairy ring." She climbed to her feet, and with two pointed fingertips, she traced the circle created by the mushrooms, of which Iorveth was at the center. "This spot flows with the Power, like a gurgling mountain spring. Can't you sense it?"

He furrowed an eyebrow. "I sense nothing."

"I do." The sorceress closed her eyes and drew a breath. "I sense a prophecy was made or fulfilled long ago where you stand this morning," she breathed. "Or a mage once blessed this circle for protection with a spell so strong, it still binds its caster to this place so deeply that he aches to return if only in spirit."

"Return to this frozen patch? It's only a circle of mushrooms," he remarked sourly.

"Stand here." She gestured outside the ring of fungi. "Then you'll see."

He stepped outside the circle, and she edged cautiously around him on the way inside as if one wrong move would result in a knife to her chest. Once securely at the center of the ring, she gathered up her skirts in hand and knelt down on both knees. She emptied her pouch of its crystals and arranged them on the ground before her in the star shape mages favored so. She proceeded to mutter the incantation she may or may not have translated for Lionel the previous day. Her hands began to wave about in a seemingly haphazard fashion.

Just as Iorveth was about to ask why magic spells were always so needlessly elaborate, the mushrooms began to faintly glow. Their shimmer intensified with the volume of Faye's voice. A gesture from her hands, and the light streamed from the mushrooms to merge on the sorceress' kneeling figure. It swirled like a whirlwind around her, then finally flowed into the crystals on the ground.

Faye gathered up the crystals and proudly displayed them in her palms as though they were gold. Then she placed them back in her pouch, gathered her skirts to step over the fairy circle, and headed for her horse. On the way she bumped into Saskia emerging from her tent, clad in full armor suit once more and clasping her cloak. The sorceress uttered a greeting while flourishing her skirts in a curtsy. Saskia humored her and curtsied back with a fur-bound cloak edge.

"She's a right marvel, ain't she?" Lionel piped, standing a stone's throw away with his hand on a horse's reigns. Iorveth began to say 'marvel' was an understatement...until he realized the peasant meant Faye.

"What do you want?" The elf scowled. He wondered briefly what became of the days when even the lunatics amongst sorceresses and the fools amongst humans knew to keep their distance from the Scoia'tael. Perhaps they were quicker to forget the past than Saskia thought.

"I was looking to have a word with that lass in your charge," Lionel said.

Lark came up beside them. "With me?"

"Yes'm. I know it was rough on you, losin' that horse and all. So, if ye like…if I ain't too outta line in offering…well, you're welcome to this one here." He extended the reigns to her.

Lark blinked.

"Saskia said she don't mind, since I know I'm supposed to check with her on these things now," Lionel continued.

"I don't need the charity of _dh'oine_. I've managed without it all my life," the half-elf scoffed.

"Right you are, but this ain't charity, it's just teamwork," the peasant insisted, giving the reigns a wave towards her. "I only reckoned you'd have an easier time keepin' up with your fellowmen here if you didn't have to walk. My own two feet suit me fine. Ain't nothing to me to walk along the supply cart, especially now that Count Marco is being watched by the dwarves all day."

With that, she allowed the reigns to be places into her hands. "Well, I…thanks, but—"

"You still haven't repaired your boot," Iorveth observed, looking down at the shredded article of footwear that clung to Lionel's ankle. "Attend to that before we reach the next mountain peak."

"Right. Miss Faye already said she'd patch it up for me," the peasant grinned. "Sorceresses—nothing they can't do, am I right?" With that he ambled on over to the supply cart.

The party was on their way again.

**(***)**

There were blessedly few surprises heading down the incline of the first mountain. The cold relented even more, and the further down they ventured the more their surroundings reflected the late autumn season rather than the perpetual winter of the mountaintops. As their path leveled, the trees gave way from evergreens to bare trunks with only a scattering of auburn leaves still dangling from the branches. They'd come to a sizable valley nestled between the peaks.

Saskia turned from the front of the convoy and faced the Scoia'tael. "Do you know this area, Lark?" she asked.

Lark, now astride the horse Lionel had given her, surveyed the scenery. "There's a main road running across the peaks on the northern end of this dale," she said, pointing on ahead. "It leads to the Kaedweni town of Daevon, just due east."

"Yes, the map says as much, but what of the dale itself?" Saskia pressed.

"Not much to tell," Lark shrugged. "Kaedweni fur trappers sometimes found their way here from the road, setting their snares on the wildlife that roams these parts. Though the ones with more balls on 'em always steered north of the road. Colder climates mean thicker furs to sell in Ard Carraigh, must be their reasoning."

"Did Sverren's commando ever conflict with these Kaedwenis?"

A laugh. "As much as skewering them with arrows and taking back the bounty they stole can be called 'conflict,'" Lark said with a hint of pride. "Of course, now that Sverren's death is old news, it wouldn't surprise me if the trappers were back in droves."

"In that case, we can expect hostilities if there are any here to see you now," Saskia concluded. "Iorveth, have your men hang back, and allow us a five-minute head start so we can confirm the way is clear."

"We'll have our eyes on you from afar," he agreed.

"Elves aside, it won't be a much prettier sight if the Kaedweni pricks get it in their heads to avenge their kingdom's pride we bruised in Vergen," Yarpen predicted.

"…That is true," she admitted. Iorveth noticed that distant, pensive look come over her as she pondered what to do next. "Count Marco," she finally continued. "It seems you may have an outlet for your emissary skills. Do you feel confident you can barter passage with the Kaedweni fur trappers we may chance to meet?"

"If you like, Lady, I'll have the fools begging to hand over their best animal pelts to you," he beamed, moving to the edge of the procession.

"No need. Just see to it that they don't attack or set the Kaedweni army on us," she commanded.

"Ever as you wish."

The proud Aedirnian noble took the lead and the party moved onward again. Only Iorveth lingered behind with his brethren as Saskia ordered. A wary feeling clawed at him as the gap between the Scoia'tael and the team widened. What possible reason could Saskia have for sending Tarn to the forefront? That arrogant ponce's single contribution to their journey had been the horses they rode. Since then, he had unabashedly committed treason, whined without cease and nearly spurred a troll's rage. If anyone could turn a negotiation with Kaedweni fur trappers into a disaster, it was Count Tarn Marco.

He understood why Saskia had him stay behind, but did she realize that now when the Count did steer them into trouble, the Scoia'tael would be unable to respond quickly, even with arrows? What was in the Virgin's head?

When the elves were far enough behind not to be noticed up ahead, Iorveth ushered them on. As the minutes yielded to hours, the trees thinned until they merely dotted the grassy expanse of the valley. Iorveth could make out the semblance of the others ahead, but could scarcely tell who was who amongst them from this distance. They had come to a small, brown tent and were no longer moving. He squinted, ever diligent of signs of trouble.

There was a snarl just off the trail beside him. It seemed that trouble had spared Tarn the effort and found _them_. Iorveth looked in time to see a rustling in some nearby shrubs, then out emerged two Rotfiends.

Lark drew her swords just as one of them threw itself upon her horse's flank. She gave an impassioned bellow and buried her sword in its head.

"Not this one, _d'yaebl!_ " she hollered. As though the fiend was the notorious Milan Raupenneck himself, she stabbed again and again furiously until it released her mount and fell on the ground. Catching her breath, she trotted on ahead and left the corpse to combust where it lay.

In a bout of yells and sword clashes, the other two Scoia'tael tended to the remaining Rotfiend with efficiency. Iorveth gave them a nod of approval, then turned to Lark. "Is your mount fit to continue?" he asked.

"I've let this one come to no harm," she assured him.

"Are these monsters common here?"

"No." She shook her head. "Not unless there are fresh dead to feed on."

He looked ahead again to the advance team. They were still at the lone tent, but there was a stirring of dust all around them. It told him Saskia's plan hadn't gone peacefully. "On to the others!" he commanded, and the Scoia'tael hurried to rejoin their contemporaries.

From afar, Iorveth couldn't tell if the struggle was against men, monsters or both. As they drew nearer, he noted that the assailants faced by Saskia's team were too rotted and feral to be the camp's original inhabitants. It was unclear whether the Rotfiends killed the campers or merely took advantage of an already festering feast. He only knew there were several of them engaging the group, including—by his count—at least two of the larger warrior variety. Once within range, he took up his bow and motioned for the others to do the same. He aimed at one of the Greater Rotfiends.

The walking carcass was set to strike at Faye, who stood alone in the chaos chanting an incantation. The beast lunged for her quicker than Iorveth's arrow could fly, intercepted instead by Yarpen's axe. It recoiled and shuddered.

"Move yer ploughin' arse, witch!" he heard the dwarf warn as he sprinted away, but Faye's concentration broke a moment too late. She looked up just as the fiend exploded. The rancid chunks of its splintered corpse hit her with such force that she toppled. She squirmed on the ground, looking as though it took all her will not to vomit.

In seconds, Saskia was standing over her with sword raised. "Back!" she barked, facing the other monsters like a she-bear guarding her cub. She swung ferociously when one dared approach.

A feeling of unrest reared in Iorveth's stomach watching this. Even when Saskia had dragged Prince Stennis from the spectral battlefield, she remained the image of grace under pressure. Why such passionate devotion to protecting Faye? It wasn't as though Yarpen and the other dwarves couldn't cover the sorceress. Unless…

"Are we shooting them or not?" Lark's voice reclaimed his attention. Without missing another beat, he sent an arrow sailing and ordered the others to do the same. A volley of arrows made their marks on the decaying hides of the Rotfiends. Some burst on impact, others recoiled just long enough to be met by dwarven steel.

He recalled Saskia's strange decision to send Tarn to the front of the caravan. Could it be that decision wasn't truly hers?

The Scoia'tael drew nearer to the fray. He could see now that there were remains of humans littering the camp, as well as a dead wolf. He didn't dwell on this long before some of the smaller monsters that clung to the edge turned their aggression on his forces. They soon perished by the blade as the first two had. With all of the monsters fallen, Saskia knelt at Faye's side and checked her ailment.

Iorveth remember the ritual Faye had conducted right before him this morning. The first person she interacted with afterward was Saskia.

"Ye gods! Is she alright?" Lionel asked, eyes on Faye.

"The dead…" Faye murmured. "The dead have become me…I have become the dead…"

"She's delirious," Tarn said. "Ranting."

"Fuck, that's hardly new," Yarpen remarked. "I've seen this sort of thing before. I say we make room for her on the supply cart, let her lay down and rest, and we bugger out of here before any more of them shiteaters show up to finish the meal."

"Yes. Shift the tent rolls so she can lie down," Saskia ordered, draping Faye's arm over her shoulder to help her up. She looked briefly over to see the Scoia'tael had rejoined them, but seemed to disregard the elves as she helped Faye onto the cart. "Yarpen, stay close to her," she went on. "If she asks for anything—herbs, water—accommodate her."

"Aye," the dwarf agreed.

Iorveth watched on in silence. There was no lingering to question the fate of the campers, no examining the site for clue of what happened as there had been on the mountain crossroad. Instead, Saskia repositioned herself in her saddle and moved on hastily, the rest behind.

_If our Faye proves to be but another Eilhart, you'll know what to do_ , Saskia had said back in Vergen when she entrusted the spellbook to him. In truth, his options seemed limited. Though he could freely talk to Saskia now (a privilege he lacked in the time that Philippa controlled her) he was still unable to voice his suspicions about Faye to her. If they turned out to be true, she would only disbelieve them…maybe even turn against him.

Nor could he kill Faye. He would have enjoyed spilling Philippa's blood in Loc Muinne, and he would readily spill Faye's if necessary. But he knew it would accomplish nothing. When he had entertained the thought of Philippa's death on the trek to Loc Muinne, Gwynbleidd had warned him that not many curses could be broken just by killing the caster. The _vatt'ghern_ had even told of cases from his own experience where the caster's death was what enacted the curse. In all likeliness, if Faye perished leaving Saskia spellbound, the dragoness may simply commit herself to carrying on Faye's legacy.

Not to mention they would be stranded in the mountains without the witch.

As they rode on, his attention never strayed far from Saskia, watching for signs of a woman possessed of magic hex. He needed to find out with certainty if she answered to the whims of Faye. His best course was to talk to her once they stopped.

**(***)**

There were cheers of delight that evening when the convoy arrived at a small, mountain stream. Tarn practically hurtled into the water, splashing his face and removing his plume hat to rinse away the stink of his hair. Others also took the opportunity to wash and drink. While it was too shallow for fish, it seemed as ideal a place as any they'd find to spend the night.

Iorveth opted to stand the first night watch shift, along with Yarpen. The elf found a rock by the stream to sit on as he whiled away the dull hours, while the ever adverse Yarpen found a place on the opposite end of the camp. Just as well—this way they had both sides covered.

As the party retired to their tents, he called out to intercept the Dragonslayer.

"Saskia. A word."

"Of course; I've barely heard one from you all day." She crouched beside the rock where he sat. Both of them faced the trickling stream. "Is there a problem?"

He searched for a way to work Faye into conversation seamlessly, so he could judge her response. "What happened at the ruined campsite when my men strayed behind?" he began.

"Not much beyond what you saw. The Count was to approach the tent and ensure the campers would not be hostile. He found the site littered with at least three dead men, though it was hard to get a precise count given their…disseminated state. There was also a wolf with a crossbow bolt in its skull."

"We heard a wolf pack's howls last night."

"And it appears that was the last thing those campers heard. We meant to leave the camp and move on, but then came the…necrophages."

"They're drawn by the scent of the dead, but they are well capable of attacking the living—"

"I know," she said, firmly and abruptly. She sounded almost defensive. Then, in a softer voice, "I know. So I had the unarmed take cover by the cargo wagon, and I had the dwarves meet the foe with steel while Faye was to assist them with magic. Then you rejoined us in a hail of arrows. There's nothing else to tell."

The _unarmed_. The _dwarves_. The only party member she called by name was Faye. "The witch took quite a fall when the creature burst upon her," Iorveth said detachedly. "Are we certain she is capable of continuing this journey?" He watched Saskia intently to gauge her reaction.

She waved a dismissive hand. "She'll manage. She's taken herbs and gone to rest."

He relaxed a little. She didn't respond harshly to his usage of the word "witch," nor did her expression show excessive worry about Faye's wellbeing. These were both good signs.

"In Murivel, Faye claimed to keep extra Power on hand in her crystals," Saskia went on. "So, if she must miss a day or two of her ritual due to her ailment, we shall adjust. At worst, we'll leave the mounts behind when we teleport from the Hengfors League."

Good signs, yes, but some of Saskia's behavior still didn't add up. Iorveth wondered again about her decision to trust Tarn in leading the team. "I commend your faith in Count Marco, if you believe he would allow his horses to be left in a strange town," he ventured.

"Ah," she leaned in and lowered her voice, "but it was in the name of good faith that I sent him to the front today. Surely you notice how the others ridicule him. His is not a breed that handles humiliation well. I must afford him some measure of faith, if I expect to keep his loyalty intact."

He nodded. "A wise approach. It's a shame, though, that the creatures you encountered required warriors' force, rather than the Count's words. And it's a shame Faye reaped the consequences rather than him."

Saskia's gaze lowered to the ground. Slowly, she broke into a knowing smile and eyed him with a bold look few others had dared to give him in his long and violent career. "I know what you are getting at," she declared.

He paused. How had she guessed?

"You think I erred in separating your archers from the company and letting Tarn take the lead…that I left us vulnerable to monsters. Am I correct?"

Of course. It made sense she assumed that. He wished to reply in earnest: he had always trusted her judgment and would follow her even if she led him through fire. But the commands she gave today—along with the strange circumstances that followed them—made him suspect that another was behind them.

And yet, he held his tongue. Until he was completely satisfied that Saskia still held her free will, he should not risk making her aware of his suspicions. "We responded as quickly as possible," he finally answered. "But if we had stayed near, we would have been able to spare what trouble the Rotfiends did cause."

She closed her eyes and gave a long, deep sigh. "Iorveth, hear me now," she began, opening her eyes to face him once more. "It was you who dubbed me 'Dragonslayer.' The foundation upon which the free PontarValley is built was laid by us both. And after what happened in Loc Muinne, know that there is no one I've come to trust more than you."

He let that sink in for a moment. If she were under the thumb of Faye's magic, would such a declaration of trust in someone else be possible for her to utter? "…All that you've entrusted to me is a trifle beside what the Aen Seidhe have placed in your hands," he assured her.

"Perhaps. But remember, though I trusted you to mind this team's survival on this journey, I took the team's unity and progress upon myself," she said. "You are free to doubt my decisions, and after all we've endured it would be foolish of me not to hear your doubts. But I will thank you to bring them to me _before_ action is taken—never again _after_."

He refrained from telling her why before hadn't been an option, and simply replied, "A fair thing to ask, Dragonslayer."

"May I take that as an agreement?" she asked.

"You may."

"Good." She stood up and turned to leave. As she retreated, without looking back, she said, "If you see any more of those Rotfiends tonight, I'm counting on you to manage them."

**(***)**

Once or twice that night, a lone Rotfiend scuttled towards the camp. They were smaller, weaker ones not worth troubling the others over. The only activity Iorveth saw during his watch shift was to abruptly bring the snarling nuisances to an end with bow and swords, while those asleep in the tents never even stirred. The rest of the time was spent watching the stream gurgle on past.

He was glad to be released from the tedious duty when Yarpen retired to a tent and two more, freshly awakened dwarves shambled out to take over the night watch. One of them, Zoltan, approached Iorveth's spot by the stream.

"Gotta hand it to ye, Squirrel…ye sure know how to pick a watch point," the dwarf remarked, kicking a pebble into the stream. "Can't exactly fall asleep on shift if I have to piss constantly."

"If that's what it takes to ensure the monsters and wolves are kept at bay, then I leave you to it," the elf replied, standing up from the rock and starting in the direction of the camp.

"Hang on, there. Before you turn in, there's something that's got me curious," Zoltan said, leaning on the rock.

"Speak it, then."

"Yer a hard one to peg down," Zoltan continued. "Sitting out here alone, puttin' yerself between nature's wrath and a distinctly human-leanin' crew. When little over a month ago, ye just as soon would have gutted the lot of them for lack of a better pastime."

"A lot has happened in a month's time."

"That it has. I just find it a touch peculiar that the span of a bloody moon cycle is enough to change a course you've run the better part of a century."

Iorveth crossed his arms. "If we're to have this conversation, I may ask you something similar. Why didn't you join the Scoia'tael in Flotsam's forests when given the chance?"

"Shite, ye mean besides the gallows in the Flotsam town square, servin' as a daily reminder against it?"

"We elves value freedom before life. What about the dwarves?"

Zoltan chortled. "Still fancy yerself a martyr, eh? Well, as Yarpen would be quick to point out, we dwarves saw the dusk falling on us even before the elves did. Dwarves like me, Yarpen and all our mates, we've reconciled that it's either with the humans, or forgotten in the past."

Iorveth nodded. "That is what it has come to, no matter how much we may wish otherwise. Saskia understands, and that is why I follow her now."

"Aye, I get all that," Zoltan said. "And I get you backing her in the Battle of Vergen—Hell, I even get you stoppin' that riot when they came after the royal prick Stennis. What I don't get is last night, puttin' out the fire. Or the way you helped the Count and Lionel out against that beast in Murivel. Ye watch over these humans like your own, even though you're likely the last thing some of their dads and granddads ever saw. That's what I can't place."

Iorveth uncrossed his arms. "They could join those families you speak of tomorrow and it would be nothing to me. I simply guard them because it's what _she_ wanted," he said.

Zoltan, still leaned against the rock, pivoted to face the stream. "Figures," he grunted.

Iorveth determined their discussion was done, so he turned to leave.

He thought he heard Zoltan murmur, "I ploughing knew it. Only has one eye and it's on her all day." He chose not to acknowledge this.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarn comes through for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT.  
> I am so eternally thankful to everyone who has enjoyed and supported this story both on AO3 and on FFN. I never in a million years dreamed that anything I wrote would resonate so much with so many people. Any time I doubt myself as a writer, I always think back to this fic and how many people loved it, from 2013 until now.  
> Bad news and good news. Bad news, I have decided I will not be continuing Saovine Convoy in its current incarnation. I will post Chapters 11 and 12 as they are currently, but that will be it.  
> Good news. I've just restarted on Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, and while I won't continue THIS incarnation of Saovine Convoy, I'm getting a lot of ideas for a revised version, taking place after that game instead of directly after Witcher 2: Assassin of Kings. This change of time frame will allow me to explore Iorveth and Saskia's reactions to the Nilfgaardian invasion, which of course demolished the Free State of Vergen. It will also allow me to explore the relationship between Saskia and Philippa more, including my take on what Philippa's weakness is that Saskia claims to know towards the end of Witcher 2. Several elements--such as fight scenes--are likely to be adapted from this original version of the fic. I would also do my best to incorporate the four OC's, and show how Nilfgaardian rule has affected them. (I'm already seeing Count Tarn Marco in black with white suns.)  
> The new version will be a whole new file, and if anyone who feels more at home in AU is interested, I'm happy to orphan this one to let them snatch it up instead.

Even in sleep, Saskia's hardships would not relent. In her mind's eye, she saw herself back in Vergen, walking down a shadow-choked corridor of the dwarven catacombs. Her only light was a candle she held in front of her, and its pale glow touched little more than her forearms. Her vision was further hindered by the hood of her cloak, pulled over her sunken head as her gaze remained on her feet. Instinct alone seemed to guide her to her somber destination.

She came to an alcove that served as the resting place for a number of fresh dead. Kneeling before the nook in the wall, she dipped her candle to another one waiting on the ground. The burst of new light unfurled upon one of the corpses laid to rest. She made out the pristine burial shrouds tightly woven around the stunted body of a dwarf.

"Forgive me," she whispered to the deceased miner, steeling herself to look up at his lifeless figure. For a moment it appeared as though he nudged. Surely, a trick of the candlelight.

An ominous scraping of claws echoed down the hallway behind her. She turned and lowered her hood to face the thing approaching in the darkness. Her head pivoted once more to the deceased. There was no denying it this time—the dwarf was moving. Struggling in his shrouds.

Alarmed, she stood and removed a strip of the burial shroud from the dwarf's face. His eyes became visible, and they were wide with fear, darting to and fro to make sense of the surroundings. Afterward, they focused in disbelief on her, then averted to the approaching noise. An animalistic snarl joined the scraping of claws.

She turned back again. The images in the dark were beginning to take shape—the shape of a horde of Rotfiends. She reached for her sword, but found it absent from its sheath. It would take the fury of a dragon's fire to best this approaching foe.

The muffled cries of the dwarf sounded behind her…and all around her. She realized now that all of the miners in the crypt's alcove were alive and moving, fearful of the impending monsters.

She could not save them without betraying herself to them.

With a sigh, she rewrapped the shroud over the dwarf's eyes, trying to ignore his stifled pleas.

"Please. You must forgive me," she murmured as she blew out the candle at the base of the tomb. Taking up her own light, she turned and departed down another corridor as the Rotfiends descended in their gluttony upon the helpless buried men in the dark.

Saskia woke. Her back ached from the hardened ground beneath her tent, but she still found it a welcome release from her nightmare. It seemed as though the spirits of the dwarves who had died trapped in Vergen's mine sought to haunt her to the end of her days. She wondered if there was any way to give rest to their souls, and respite to her own.

Pushing the haunting thoughts from her mind, she made herself stand and don her armor. She exited her tent in a haze and trudged to the stream beside the camp. The swirling and rippling of the stream distorted a reflection she knew would look tired and haggard. Her hands lowered to cup the water.

"Umm…I don't mean to tell you your business, Saskia, Ma'am…but I wouldn't be doing that just now," Lionel ventured from nearby.

Saskia looked up to him. "Why is that?"

The peasant pointed upstream. Lark stood on the bank, holding the reigns of the horse Lionel had loaned her. She stroked its nose with an absent expression on her face. The horse stood hoof-deep in the water, hind legs bent, tail raised…

"Oh." Saskia stood and wiped her hands at her sides.

"Will Miss Faye be alright, Saskia?"

She looked over at Lionel. He wore the eyes of a calf as he asked about the sorceress. Her throat filled with words of warning, heeding Lionel to be wary of those who dealt in spells. But the words didn't escape her lips, for she reminded herself of Triss' aid to her outside Loc Muinne, proving that not all mages fit Philippa's devious mold. She merely replied, "I've yet to see her this morning."

"Right. Well, when you do, if it ain't too much trouble, tell her I hope she gets better."

"Why do you not tell her yourself?" Saskia asked.

Lionel shrugged.

"…Very well. I'll relay your regards to her."

The peasant tipped his head. "Thank you, Miss Saskia. It's surely appreciated."

He trudged away, and after a time Lark vacated the stream with the horse. Judging it as sanitary as it would ever be, Saskia splashed the stream's cool water on her face. She stood and wiped her face on her sleeve. The night's sweat was washed away, but the nightmares that brought it still remained. She looked to the tent where Faye was laid, protected by Yarpen and others.

Perhaps it wasn't the spirits of the dwarven miners that haunted her. Perhaps it was Faye's misfortune that rekindled these nocturnal horrors.

Just as her orders caused Vergen's miners to suffer the claws and jowls of Rotfiends, now they brought the same misfortune on the Kaedweni sorceress. It was her choice to send Tarn to the front of the party as they approached the trappers' camp yesterday, leaving them vulnerable to the attack. And though no one fell prey to the monsters' jaws this time, Faye had fallen ill from a Rotfiend's burst carcass. She hung to life, thankfully, but in truth Saskia doubted if she'd be able to continue the spells needed to teleport them home at their journey's end.

In spite of her doubts, Saskia could not let herself waver in front of her subjects. If she appeared to lose heart, then so would they. She affixed her most steadfast expression to her face and strode to where the sorceress rested.

Faye lay on a pile of bags. There was a mortar and pestle at her side, a concoction of crushed herbs within. It looked like she had taken some of the remedy already, for her color was less pallid than the day before. Her gaze remained as vacant as ever.

"Faye." Saskia addressed her as stoically as possible.

"Yes. I'm here," the mage murmured, as if she was just summoned from another realm. Saskia couldn't help wondering which one she truly lived in. At least she was well enough to speak and comprehend.

"I have come to check your condition and decide if you are still fit to travel after yesterday's incident." The fledgling queen kept the same demeanor she had when judging Lionel and Tarn in Murivel's ruins. "Furthermore, Lionel Hix sends his well-wishes to you."

Faye nodded slowly. "Your people need us to continue," she stated simply.

Saskia blinked. "Us?"

Faye waved her hand towards the tent's opening, towards their other travel mates who milled about outside. "All of us. The peasants who gather the tinder, who build and break camp. The dwarves, who protect us with steel. The elves who shield us from nature's wrath. Even the Count who weaves words of silver. We all must play our roles to reach our goal. Who am I to give up mine?" She turned and gave Saskia an earnest look. "And you….you play yours well. Most well of all."

That one pierced too close for comfort. Saskia started to excuse herself, but settled on diverting the topic. "True, but your role comes with strains I must know you are still able to bear. Can you still perform the ritual each day to draw the Power that will teleport us home?"

"Yes, but it will drain me. Magic demands much, and I'll need rest after my rituals. Maybe until noon, maybe until evening. Before I'm well again, I can't cast further spells. I'm sorry."

"We'll do without until you're healed," Saskia assured her. "One last thing. Lark confirmed that there's a mountain pass on the other side of this valley, connecting Redania to Kaedwen. …You hail from Kaedwen, do you not?"

Again, Faye nodded. "Before Vergen, my home was Ban Ard."

"I know what happened in Kaedwen, after Loc Muinne," Saskia ventured carefully. "I know what Henselt did to his kingdom's sorceresses."

A look of grim recollection came over Faye. Clearly she had spent as little time thinking about her final days in Kaedwen as possible…and even less talking about it. "Sorcerors died, too," she whispered. "Ban Ard's magic academy for boys is where they honed their craft. But bearers of the unicorn's banner came and cut them down alongside their mothers, sisters and daughters of the art." An upward glance. "My brother was one of them. He taught me what the sorcerors' school would not. And he perished for it, so I might flee to pass it on."

Saskia found herself reaching out to touch Faye's shoulder in sympathy. She halted, and instead searched for words. "You do your brother a great credit to employ his teachings in service to Upper Aedirn," she commended. "I urge you to use them wisely, should we meet who you call the 'bearers of the unicorn's banner' on our journey along Kaedwen's western border. Especially on the mountain pass we now approach."

"My brother's temperance will halt me if you wish them to live," Faye replied. "His fire will burn at my fingertips if you wish them to die."

Saskia yielded to her impulses this time and rested a hand on Faye's shoulder. Then she turned and left the tent.

(***)

True to her word, Faye struggled to perform her ritual that morning. As soon as her crystals glowed with the sudden flooding of Power in them, she slumped down until her arms dropped on her knees.

"Yarpen," Saskia beckoned. "Help her gather her magic components and hoist her onto her horse. Hold the reigns alongside your own if necessary."

"Hmph," Yarpen grumbled in his throat. "I suppose somewhere in the supplies, I'll find a stepladder to do all that with? I say we just load her back on the mule cart again."

"Too bumpy," mumbled Faye. "My horse is better."

"Don't worry, I've got her," Lionel spoke up. He knelt by Faye to scoop her crystals into their satchel. He handed it to her, and took hold of her arms to help her up and usher her to the waiting mare. Faye teetered on the mount's back.

"The lass can barely sit upright in her saddle," Yarpen observed. "How can ye even bloody expect her to hold the reigns?"

"She won't have to." Lionel stood at the horse's withers and grasped the reigns, ready to lead the animal along on the next mountain climb. "As long as it's alright with you, Saskia?"

A nod. "Of course, Lionel. Just stay on your guard—we're nearing a region that holds bad memories for her."

"Don't worry none. I'll keep both eyes open," he promised.

Moments later, as they waded across the stream, he lost his footing on a slick rock and stumbled. Luckily he caught himself before he could fall under the horse's hooves, and he moved along with nothing to show for it but wet feet. "No harm done," he grinned.

The early morning sun crawled higher into the sky, slowly maturing into a noontime blaze. At the front of the procession, Saskia was aware of the usual chatter humming within the company.

 _"_ _What I wouldn't give for a taste of wine. How you dwarves are managing without the liquor you so rely on is beyond me."_

 _"_ _Fuck me, would ye find the buttons to yer lips, Count?"_

 _"_ _Else I'll make ye some myself!"_

There were the complaints of Tarn and the dwarves who guarded him.

 _"_ _I hope there are no more harpies on the next mountain."_

 _"_ _I'm more worried about the rockslides, myself."_

There were the humans, ever wary of what lay ahead.

The elves were characteristically silent and aloof to the back. Yet, Saskia felt an unrest at the back of her mind. She sensed there was a baited thickness to the elves' silence that wasn't there before. She turned back to them. Her eyes met Iorveth's gaze for a fleeting second, before he promptly set his attention between the ears of his horse.

Was he still mulling over their talk at the stream the night before? Did he not find her requests to be fair?

As though he'd read her mind, Iorveth suddenly hastened his horse's pace and met her at the front of the party.

"What is it?" she asked.

Without a word, he drew his bow and notched an arrow. He steered the arrow's point into to the treetops and sent it sailing. She didn't have time to question him further before an insectoid screech rang out, and from the amber-leafed branches fell a large, red scorpion-like creature.

"Endregas," he said.

In spite of the arrow stuck in its carapace, the endrega wasn't quite dead. It scuttled onto its belly and clambered on its six spiny legs toward the team. Saskia reached for her sword, but before her fingers could curl around the hilt, there was another _twang_ of arrow leaving bow. Again Iorveth met his mark, and the wretched bug shuddered then expired.

"There will be more ahead. This is the season their larvae hatch, making the colony more defensive and hostile," Iorveth explained. "Would you have us take the lead, and pick off the drones waiting to ambush from the treetops?"

"If you think it best," Saskia agreed. "We'll stay behind and you will signal when the path is clear."

"It would be better for the rest to remain close behind," he replied. "A Queen Endrega usually stays dormant, but if her young are threatened she proves a force to be reckoned with. Her fury rivals that of the phantom we faced in Murivel, and caltrops would be useless against her."

"Alright," Saskia conceded. "We'll stay close at hand, but I am depending on you to mind the safety of this team."

"I've not strayed from that purpose yet," he reminded her. "And so long as my men do not suffer for it, I don't intend to."

At the broad sweep of Iorveth's arm, the other Scoia'tael sifted through the convoy to the front and led the way into the trees. Saskia motioned for the rest to follow. They entered the woods to the chorus of arrows launching, endrega hides rupturing, monstrous forms tumbling from the trees and final blows landing. Once, a fallen endrega strayed within range of Saskia, only to cease its moving at the behest of her sword. Another was likewise silenced by Zoltan's blade.

Just when it seemed they had for once found an obstacle with no surprises, a deep snarl rumbled in the glade ahead.

Faye whimpered and her horse became skittish, but Lionel did his best to calm both. Even he froze, however, when just ahead a towering colossus shambled over a fallen log and towards the group. It had a bulbous abdomen and pincers fit to consume anything in their reach.

"Watch it! That's a Queen Endrega if I ever saw one!" growled Zoltan.

"But I distinctly heard the elf say it only attacked if its _young_ were threatened!" protested Tarn. "As I recall, we've touched no larvae!"

"Feel free to make that case to it, then. We'll ploughin' wait!" Zoltan retorted.

Larvae or no larvae, the Queen Endrega's massive footfalls drew nearer to the team. It wasn't alone, either. At least four more endregas—lesser in size, but equal in aggression—skittered down from the trees to join the foray.

 _"_ _Spar'le!"_ At Iorveth's word, a hailstorm of arrows pelted against the Queen. Its pronounced posterior would have made an easy target even for a novice archer, so naturally the Scoia'tael's arrows found it as though guided. The monstrous matriarch staggered with each new piercing, then charged forward to unleash the wrath of its pincers on the elves. Two of the lesser endregas attacked Iorveth's warriors from the sides. The Scoia'tael were competent archers and swordsmen, but not both at once—and so the beasts' snaps and lashes were upon their horses before they could swap their bows for their swords.

Meanwhile, the other two endrega warriors caused trouble for Saskia's team. The dwarves' weapons dented and splintered the insectoids' exteriors like wood, all while the monsters continued doggedly in their assault. Saskia drew a breath to order Faye to lend them her magic fire or traps, but she faltered upon looking back at the sorceress. She was still hunched forward in her saddle, head hung low, exhausted in her illness from just the strain of her daily ritual. Lionel was at her mount's side, wood axe at the ready, though he mostly just swung it in a pale imitation of the dwarves as they busily dealt with the endregas.

Faye could not help them now. The dwarves' strikes and profanity-laced battle cries endured for the moment.

The elves, however, were becoming overwhelmed. Only Lark remained firmly on her horse's back. She did her best to stop the animal's bucks and kicks but ultimately just settled on trying to steer them to crush the endregas, with limited success. Iorveth and the others dismounted with swords drawn, letting their horses scatter in a frenzy. One of the elven warriors was kicked in the back of the shoulder by an unruly hoof, which sent him staggering into an endrega guard's waiting maw. Iorveth attempted to sidestep the Queen and attack it from the side, but the chaos obstructed his path of movement, and he staggered at the looming foe's lunge.

Saskia glanced back to the two endregas, still held at bay by the dwarves, but slowly closing in on Lionel, Faye and Tarn.

She looked ahead to the devastation being wrought on the elves.

She dismounted, drew her sword and pushed forcefully into the onslaught ahead. With a brisk battle cry, she delved into the back of the nearest endrega guard while the recently-kicked Squirrel grappled it from the front. The surprise attack was all the bug could sustain, and the elf took the opportunity to finish it with a sword. Only then did he stop to massage his aching shoulder, while casting Saskia an expression of begrudging thanks. Barely stopping to acknowledge him, Saskia pushed on.

As she narrowly dodged Lark's rearing horse, she caught a glimpse of the half-elf still atop the animal. She was waving an item in her hand and shouting in Elder.

Without a second to question her, Saskia made way to the Queen that now had Iorveth prone. She gave a strong hack at the beasts' side. It shuddered and turned to face her. She managed to parry a jab of its pincers, and swung back on her sword to hit it again.

Before Saskia could swing, the Queen Endrega recoiled and perished.

Saskia lowered her sword, confused. She looked at Iorveth, who was just stumbling to his feet. Lark was still on horseback, and the other Squirrels now busied themselves with the remaining endrega guard. She looked back to the dwarven party, who had just finished off their own insectoid attackers. Yarpen was heartily thumping Lionel on the shoulder, while the peasant struggled to yank his wood axe from a dead endrega's head.

"Good on ya, lad! Learn to walk on your knees, and we'll make a proper dwarf of you yet!" the old veteran was chortling.

Now at her horse's side, with the reigns in hand to subdue the mount, Lark smiled. _"Ceádmil,"_ she said, putting away the mountain troll's jawbone trinket.

Saskia followed her gaze to see who she was talking to. From around the Queen Endrega's corpse strode a mountain troll…nearly identical to the one they met on the mountaintop, but stouter and with thicker hair on its arms and head. The troll spoke in the same coarse variant of Elder Speech, and Lark responded.

"You were alerting him," Saskia realized, turning to Lark. "You asked him to help us."

Lark nodded. "He says he was scouting for food to bring to his mother for winter. He doesn't fear the 'big bug's' poison or bite, but he is sorry that his foraging has brought the big bugs' anger on 'friends of trolls.'"

Saskia noticed that the troll had something crudely strapped to his back…a sizable green larva cocoon. Having lived among humans for most of her life, she was not one to criticize the appetites of other species. So she simply replied, "You may tell him his mother and brother have gathered plenty already, and he is free to go home and reunite with them."

Lark relayed the message, and the troll gave his reply. The exchange went on longer than Saskia expected. Had Lark misspoken? Did the troll take offense to her suggestion?

Finally, Lark explained. "He thanks us and will go back to his family soon. He also mentioned he is glad to cut his hunt short, since many 'humies' have been arriving on the pass at the top of this mountain.

Saskia knew well from many inspections of their map that the pass due north was a road spanning between the Redanian city of Rinde and the Kaedweni city of Daevon. It was probably heavy with traffic between the two nations, especially if they were sending aid to each other as Nilfgaard encroached.

"If we are crossing the pass, he bids us to be careful," Lark continued.

"And so we shall," Saskia said. "Let us make short of these pleasantries, then, and be on our way."

The troll gave a crude bow to Lark after her translation, then lumbered past Saskia in the direction of the valley to the south.

"Revolting." Tarn cringed at the sight of the endrega cocoon on the brute's retreating back.

In her weakened state, Faye made no request to stay and harvest alchemy components from the fallen insectoids, so the group resumed their trek once more. As Saskia trod on, she focused on how to barter passage with the Kaedwenis or Redanians they risked meeting at the crossroad ahead. The fur trappers in the dale were but common folk and might have been subdued by Tarn's glib negotiations, had they not fallen prey to wolves. The trail ahead, however, may put her team in contact with armed forces whose shields boasted the emblem of the phoenix or the unicorn. Worse, some of the Scoia'tael archers who were responsible for turning the tides in the Battle of Vergen travelled with her now. If word reached the major cities on either end of this road that they left Vergen unfortified…

"Saskia." Her thoughts were cut short when Iorveth's horse again matched the pace of hers. She glanced to the left to face him, and while keeping his gaze forward he continued. "Don't think it escaped my attention what you did for the elves in that glen. Your men and mine both faltered in the endrega nest, yet it was us you chose to assist."

"You have kept your word to aid my men, and admirably so," she said. "I intend to keep my word that yours won't suffer on this quest in favor of mine."

Though the cowl and a deep scar obscured his face, a faint smile dared to emerge. "I stand reassured as ever of your iron will, Dragonslayer," he proclaimed. There was a ring of respect in his words, and a ring of relief she didn't fully understand. It was as if this statement had more meaning than he let on. "What remains of the Vrihedd Brigade would readily follow you into the Ravine of the Hydra, if you asked it of us."

She paused under the weight of these words. The Ravine of the Hydra…where the disgraced Scoia'tael warriors were executed after the Peace of Cintra—an ultimate mark of betrayal to the elven people. "You honor me with such loyalty," she replied. "But rest assured my plans don't include such a demand of you."

That seemed to satisfy him for the rest of the climb.

(***)

The elements, though chilly as before, were kinder to them on the way up this mountain than they had been on the first. There were no harpies or hostile trolls to contend with. Whatever mild nuisances met them, from the stray endrega to the wandering nekker, were dealt with effectively. Saskia's concern remained on the crossroads just ahead. When the map indicated they were within a few minutes' reach of the trail, she brought the procession to a halt.

"The travelers on the mountain pass ahead will not likely be any friends of ours," she announced. "There is a chance that both Redanian and Kaedweni passengers will be too preoccupied with the Nilfgaardian menace to mind our passing, but we must choose our approach wisely. Count?"

Tarn's plumed hat rose slightly from the back. "Lady?"

"I trust you were not too deterred by the mishap at the fur trappers' camp to lend us your ambassador talents once more," she presumed. "You may take the forefront again—this time the dwarves will accompany you closely in case of an attack. Whether you encounter the subjects of Henselt or of Radovid, you must persuade them to let us cross in safety."

"Yes, Lady Saskia." He rode forward. "It would be my privilege."

"Be doubly vigilant, Tarn, if you find yourself meeting Kaedwenis," she warned. "Needless to say, there is some precedent for a parley between representatives of Kaedwen and Aedirn to go poorly."

"Of course. As a native Aedirnian I accepted this role when we first set out from Vergen, aware even then of that risk," Tarn replied. "Our two nations have a tense history, it's true…but the rain of fire that consumed both our armies three years ago proved that there is still much that can unite us."

"Well spoken," she said. "I hope those you encounter feel the same."

Tarn, joined by the dwarves who supervised him each day, rode on towards the mountain trail. Saskia and the humans followed, the elves trailing them. Saskia prepared herself to intervene should Tarn's efforts take a turn for the sour. But she held fast to the words she had spoken to Iorveth the night before: trusting the Count was the surest way to keep his loyalty intact.

There was a steady rumble of wagon wheels in the near distance. As they edged closer, Saskia could make out horses through the trees. Fortune seemed to favor her group, for there was no glint of armored men on the march to accompany the animals. Instead there were several plainly dressed humans on mules, and a few finely dressed ones on well-bred horses. The sound of churning wagon wheels was underscored by the hoofbeats and calls of beasts. Not just horses and mules; there were sheep among them, too. The creatures bleated and brayed as they were ferried along the trail. The troupe was moving from right to left—Kaedwen was their origin, and Redania their destination.

Saskia watched as Tarn dismounted at the edge of the trail and cradled his hat against his chest like a yielding diplomat. One of the finely dressed travelers regarded him, directed his horse to the trail's side and pulled back the reins to reach a stop.

"Ho there!" she heard a Kaedweni accent call out from the saddle. The man atop the steed was clad in a tartan and thick furs, making his age and weight hard to discern. He was unmistakably human, though, and if his steed or style of dress left any doubt then his commanding tone confirmed he was a man of importance.

"Good sir," Tarn greeted with a bow. "My company and I hold your mother kingdom of Kaedwen in the highest regard."

Though Saskia could see only the backs of their heads, she imagined the dwarves with Tarn would be biting their tongues at that remark.

"Ah, an Aedirnian, if my ears serve me right," the horseman chortled. "What brings you so far north? I am to understand Aedirn's more pressing problems are currently to the south."

"You understand well, Milord, and they advance ever northward," Tarn replied. "It is my company's earnest wish that Aedirn and Lormark remain the strong and steady rampart between the foe to the south and His Majesty King Henselt's still-proud realm. We ask only to cross this road in peace that we may pursue this goal."

 _Smart,_ Saskia thought. He used the Kaedweni-favored term "Lormark," rather than the more modern "Upper Aedirn," no doubt to gain influence with this subject of King Henselt. His flattery of Henselt's name could go far, too, if Kaedwen's recent defeat still tasted bitter on this man's tongue.

Unfortunately, out of all Tarn's well-crafted words, the horseman picked the unlikeliest to take issue with.

"Aedirn _and_ Lormark, you say?" he scoffed. "And which is it you represent, Sir? Though you speak with the tongue of the late King Demavend's countrymen, you ride in the company of dwarves. How peculiar, given that a dwarven town was the site of Kaedwen's loss and Upper Aedirn's gain."

Tarn gave no reply. Not good. This skeptic could react unfavorably whether the Count claimed fealty to Aedirn or Upper Aedirn. He may merely make them wait until his procession had crossed…or he may sent a messenger to alert Kaedwen of their intentions.

Finally, Tarn lifted his head. "Milord, national borders have counted for little in our history, and would count for even less under the White Sun's banner. King Henselt himself made the prudent deal with Radovid of Redania to divide and annex the fragments of Temeria. Just as your Kaedweni party now seeks to make a prudent deal with the neighboring Redania in the exchange of your pedigreed livestock, as it would seem. National borders have merit only by the grace of the leader who governs within them. And so, though I am a son of the esteemed Aedirnian house of Marco, I am privileged today to count myself among the citizens governed by she who boldly declared borders of her own: Lady Saskia of the Pontar Valley."

There was a bated silence.

"Marco?" repeated the horseman. "Did you say 'house of Marco'?"

"Aedirn's finest in the breeding and rearing of horses. I am Tarn, Count of the House of Marco," came the boastful reply.

A robust chuckle jostled the man's thick layer of furs. "Why didn't you simply say so from the beginning, Count?" The horseman dismounted and removed his own hat to reveal nearly-black hair streaked with gray. "I am Baron Silas Mayhew. You look a lad, so perhaps you don't remember. But the Mayhew and Marco households have something of a history, as it were."

"Of …course! The esteemed Mayhews," Tarn acknowledged unsurely. "My father has spoken of you. His favorite riding saddle bears your house crest. A black and red ram, I believe, on a…"

"…On a yellow field," the older man finished. "He's kept it all these years, then? It was decades ago that I gave it to him in thanks for his goodwill. Our family had lost much of its livestock to plague, and we faced ruin if we couldn't repopulate our pastures. Your father had been idealistic in his youth—a trait he clearly bestowed on you. In his idealism, he yearned to see Kaedwen and Aedirn as steadfast neighbors, not foes. To this end he provided some of his finest stallions, which he assured me would sire the most impressive stock my house had ever seen." Baron Silas Mayhew waved a hand across his congregation. "As you can see, his words were not hollow. This integrity is what separates us nobles from mere farmhands. Would you say you follow his example in this, young Tarn?

"I answer to Lady Saskia, who measures noble and peasant by the same scale," proclaimed Tarn without hesitation. "But be assured, Baron Mayhew, that I have not abandoned the honorable principles that my family upheld then as they do now."

"Nor have I," the Baron replied. "Your self-fashioned queen and her riffraff brought humiliation on the Unicorn. Under lesser circumstances, I'd not give them an inch. But I'll honor the Marcos of Aedirn by letting you and yours be on your way, unimpeded. No one in my charge will interfere with your affairs."

"Thank you. And wellest of wishes on your venture into Redania."

(***)

Saskia had anticipated disaster, perhaps even bloodshed. But for once, Tarn Marco had exceeded her expectations. "Well done, Count," she commended him once they were back in the seclusion of Sverren's old mountain trails.

He gave her a nod. "I had much to prove to you after my infractions in Murivel."

"You've regained a degree of my faith, so I will restore your unimpeded status in this convoy." She raised a hand. "You are no longer required to stay under the supervision of the dwarves or the Scoia'tael."

Tarn grinned. "My sincerest thanks." He tipped his head. "You favor me with this bestowal of faith."

"Perform as admirably as this in Hengfors, and I shall waive your counsel hearing in Vergen, too," she said.

"I guarantee you, Saskia." The Count looked straight into her eyes, forgoing the "Lady" title for the first time. "Hengfors will be an ally to our children's children once I've had my say."

"Take just one thing to heart," she continued. "You said to Baron Mayhew that a nation's borders are given merit by the leader within. Don't forget what gives that leader merit. Not bloodlines, but supporters—the people who make up a nation." Faye's words from that morning replayed in her mind and then passed her own lips. "We must all play our roles to reach our goal."

Tarn bowed his head, then looked up. "I see precisely what you mean. As long as they believe this to be true, they'll kneel before you."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this fic. As stated in chapter 11, I will not be continuing it. Thank you to everyone who supported me on it along the way. Let me know if you would like to see it Orphaned so someone else can pick it up.

**Chapter Twelve**

So far this journey had reminded Iorveth bitterly of the Aen Seidhe's exodus from their former palaces and towns to the dregs of society. But he took solace in knowing that unlike that exodus, this journey led _toward_ something—not merely away.

For the next few days after Count Tarn Marco negotiated their way past the Kaedweni caravan, little more than odd monstrosity troubled them. The sorceress Faye slowly but surely recovered from the illness the Rotfiend inflicted on her. Still, out of a foolish chivalry, Lionel had insisted on staying at her mount's side, hobbling along clumsily and holding the horse's flank like a fawning parent holds a toddling child.

"Turning roses to doves is a good one," Faye uttered at one point. It made as much sense to Iorveth as any of her crazed ramblings, though it was not meant for him.

"Beggin' your pardon, Miss?" Lionel asked.

"A magical party trick," she clarified. "Turning roses to doves…it delights young children. Is that why you remain at my side, though I am ailed no more? You'd have me use my magic to entertain your child in Aedirn, when at last you two reunite."

"Um…oh! No, o' course not!" Lionel stuttered. Without looking at his face, Iorveth wagered he was blushing. Always driven by such base emotions, the _dh'oine_. "I ain't seekin' naught in return, Miss Faye," he continued. "You just…you mean too much t' our mission to let nary a harm come to you. Without you, an' that little pebble 'round your neck, the lot of us would be stranded out here."

"Is protection not what the dwarves are here for?"

"Aye. Well…stubby as they are, they got the lower part of you covered. Me, I can see to the top—er…" he seemed to halt in mid-sentence when he realized his own awkwardness. "…I mean, that _is_ where you keep the pebble…you know…the top of you…" he trailed off.

He was met by silence for a moment. Then Faye spoke. "I do not mind."

"Mind?"

"Showing magic tricks to your child."

"That right, is it?" Lionel chortled. "Heh, well…I won't try n' stop you. If I ever do meet him. Or her."

Iorveth had heard all he could endure, and urged his mare further away from the pair.

The air in the Kestrel Mountains was cold, and the frost-glazed leaves on the ground made icy crunches under the horses' hooves and the wagon wheels. There were no more mysteries of the one called Lily, no more idiocies committed by the _dh'oine_ travelers. For a time, the Scoia'tael commander found himself feeling something resembling peace. This peace was, as he expected, all too temporary.

"Whoa!" Saskia's voice called out from the front, and her steed's abrupt halt signaled the others to follow suit. They stood at the edge of another wooded expanse of mountain…only this one had sticks and branches fallen on the path. Some were as big around as a dwarf's leg, and plenty were long and entangled enough that there was clearly no easy way past them.

" _Bloede cáerme,_ The trees must have been damaged in a storm," Lark observed.

"Is there any other way around not apparent by our map?" Saskia asked her.

"Not without going back to the road where we met the Kaedwenis," the half blood said. "We'd do best to clear the way."

"Surely swords and axes are fit for more than monster flesh," Tarn suggested. "Let us merely cut a swath and move along."

"We've no blacksmith with us, Count," Zoltan reminded him. "We can't go dulling our weapons, or we'll be no match for whatever foes lay ahead."

"Faye, I'll not inquire of teleportation," Saskia began. "But can your magic help us be rid of this obstruction in any other way?"

"A few chanted words will reduce a branch to wood chips," answered the sorceress. "But only one at a time may they be splintered."

"Ain't no reason we can't haul the wood off, is there?" Lionel added. "That is, just lash it to the horses and pull it away?"

Saskia's decision was swift. "We are a tandem, are we not, men? We'll combine our efforts. Lark, find your way through the woods to the other side of this wreckage. Report back and tell us how far it goes. In the meantime, Faye, begin your chanted words on this side, while the rest of you," she reached out to the humans, "set the horses to work hauling branches aside. Zoltan, Yarpen, cut only any branches that still cling to trees. Your weapons can endure that much, can't they?"

"Aye," Yarpen assented.

"And what of us, Saskia?" Iorveth interjected.

"We will be stalled for some time. Have your elves keep the wildlife at bay," she instructed, as she dismounted from her own stallion to put it to work pulling branches.

He watched her a moment. After what had passed between them in the endrega lair, he allowed no complaint to take root in his mind for the menial task. When she had chosen to help the elves instead of her own against the insectoids, thus fulfilling her promise made in Vergen, she had reaffirmed his faith in her. Her will was truly her own, not that of any sorceress, and he questioned the integrity of her orders no longer.

There was a loud _pop_ , followed by a scattering noise. Iorveth diverted his gaze from Saskia to the source: Faye, on foot, hands raised to cast a spell. Where one of the branches had previously been, now piles of wood chips settled onto the trail. It would make for bumpy, but not impossible traveling. The hack and slash of dwarven blades and axes striking wood soon rang out. Anticipating the curious predators this noise would bring, Iorveth scanned the nearly bare treetops as well as the forest floor, thick with leaves.

After a time, he picked up on a stir in the foliage and began to make a grab for an arrow, but relented when he saw it was only Lark returning. "This is the worst of it, here," she announced to Saskia. "But there are some smaller branches a fathom or two down the trail. Nothing that couldn't be moved by two people, tops."

"In that case, Lionel, accompany Lark and dispose of the lesser branches," Saskia told the peasant.

"Anything you say, Ma'am." With that, he left Faye's now riderless horse and followed Lark back through the thicket. Iorveth's eye lingered for a second on the spot where they disappeared. Lionel stumbled clumsily before vanishing completely from view. He'd claimed to be a woodsman once. Iorveth found it strangely amusing, then, that he could not keep his composure once off the beaten path.

Another _pop_ , another scattering of wood chips. The footfalls of hooves plunged heavily into the soft soil, and then came the mighty rustling of branches giving way as they were dragged across the ground. Still no monsters in sight. No bandits waiting in ambush, or mountain trolls with whom to strike deals. It seemed this setback would be a minor one.

Then came the muffled yowl of pain from the other side of the wreckage. Everyone fell silent, except for Faye. "The axeman," she whispered.

"Lark! Lionel!" Saskia called out. "What was that?!"

"Nothing…!" Lionel called back weakly. "Just…just missed my step, Miss Saskia. I just need t-to…shake it off, I do."

Again there was a rustling, and again Lark emerged through the forest. This time, Lionel hung heavily upon her shoulder, supporting his weight on his right leg while dragging his left. "Something's wrong with him," Lark said. "We tried to pull a branch to the edge of the trail, and he just crumpled like a sack of cloth. Something's wrong with his leg, but he won't say more."

"Because it's nothing, really!" Lionel insisted. "I'll just be—" He tried to leave Lark's side, but as he did so, he fell once more and rolled onto his side.

Iorveth thought back to his previous interactions with the simple Aedirnian. The boot damaged by the phantom beast. Lionel's promise to have it repaired. The way he clung to the witch's horse for support.

At once Iorveth knew what was wrong. He pushed his way past Faye and Tarn, who had gathered around curiously along with most of the others. He strode to Lionel's side and roughly shoved the peasant onto his back with his foot. Lionel tried to squirm away, but Iorveth knelt down and grabbed a fistful of his tunic. That froze him to the spot.

"Lark, remove the offending boot," Iorveth ordered. Wordlessly, she too knelt and seized Lionel's boot—still damaged more than a week after the beast fight in Murivel and full of gravel. A swift yank, and his bare foot was exposed.

There were murmurs of disgust. Somewhere behind Iorveth, Zoltan mumbled "Bloody hell." Lionel's toes looked like those of a long dead corpse: grisly and black.

"Lionel?" Saskia stared as though feathers and talons would have been less of a shock to discover below his knee. Still, she clearly meant to keep her emotions in check and maintain the role of leader. "Explain this."

"Gods, I—" Lionel gulped when he saw his own foot, as though trying not to throw up. "I'd no idea it'd be this bad! Saskia, I pray you, please understand! I tried, I 'onestly an' truly tried to stay outta your way. The last thing I meant was to bring more trouble to you, after Murivel an' all!"

"What is this, Lionel?" Saskia pressed. "Poison? An animal bite?"

"Frostbite," Iorveth answered for the stammering fool, releasing his shirt. "I've seen this before. A few Scoia'tael fell victim to frostbite in the first winter after the destruction of the Vrihedd Brigade. We were scattered to the four winds and only just reformed as bandits, so we had little means for preventing it and even fewer for treatment."

"But,i-it started as just a little bitin' feeling," Lionel said. "I-I've worked through worse in Aedirn. Splittin' headaches, an achin' back…none o' them was worth going hungry to give 'em rest. I even helped build Vergen's battle defenses with a smartin' wasp sting in my chest. Beside that, a little pang in the foot didn't seem worth a fuss."

"That 'little pang in the foot' may have been avoided," snarled Iorveth, "if you'd done as I said and gotten the sorceress to fix your boot."

"Miss Faye was ailin' something awful when that fiend bust on her, back at the fur trappers' camp," Lionel pretested. "I planned on askin' her sooner or later, but when the bitin' feeling stopped, I didn't see no hurry."

"Well, now you can see _why_ it stopped," Lark interjected, gesturing to his blackened digits. "Or have you been sleeping with your boots on all this time, too?"

"I didn't know," Lionel shook his head. "I didn't have no idea."

"All that matters is what can be done for him now," Saskia interjected, before Lark could. "Iorveth, you said there were Scoia'tael who suffered this in your ranks. What became of them?"

"The elves touched by frostbite lived," Iorveth replied. "But none will ever draw a bow again."

"W…What do you mean?" Lionel choked.

"Their fingers had to be cut from their hands."

"Almighty gods!" The human squirmed on the ground below Iorveth. "You can't mean 'at! You're not really sayin' you'll chop my foot off, are you?"

"You'll keep the hind half of it. The front, however, must go."

"No! Please, no!" Lionel clambered up to a sitting position. "But you said yourself the elves had no other way of treatin' it! What about us, then? We got other ways, don't we?"

"Name them," Iorveth challenged sourly. "I'd gladly hear how my archers might have been salvaged."

"We got…" Lionel's eyes darted wildly. "We got herbs, and the like. We got magic! Miss Faye—dear, sweet Faye—ain't there nothin' you can do?" His pleading gaze fell on the sorceress.

"I am sorry," she murmured. "No herb can awaken dead flesh. My magic may speed up a body's ability to heal…but if I were to speed up this," she looked at his decaying foot, "then I'd only be helping it to spread."

"There you have it," Lark assessed wryly. "There's no other way. I'd hold still, if I were you."

Iorveth motioned to the other Scoia'tael nearby. "Restrain him. And give him something to bite down on."

Lionel whimpered what were likely to be deity names as the elves approached him.

"Hold on, doesn't this all seem terribly extreme?" the Count spoke up. "This fellow is a laborer, by birth and practice. He collects firewood, makes and breaks camp. An amputation would deprive him the very purpose of his being. And since Saskia so rightly asserts liberty for all, doesn't he deserve the sound opinion of one more qualified? Surely the sorceress can whisk him back to Vergen for proper care?"

"Any doctor or feldsher in Upper Aedirn will call for the same treatment that I mean to render," Iorveth retorted. "Only they will demand coin for it that 'laborers by birth and practice' do not possess."

"So sure, are you?" another dh'oine snapped. "You were so hot to torment that bandit south of Murivel. How do we know those swords of yours ain't just grown thirsty? Poor Lionel here could be just the excuse an old human-killer needs to whet his appetite."

Others slowly crowded around, closing in and leaving little space for tending to Lionel.

"Your suspicions of me grow more tiresome by the day," spat Iorveth to his latest accuser. "They failed you when my men turned the tides in the besieged Vergen. They failed you when I returned from Loc Muinne with Saskia, and time and again as I defended this party on its quest."

"…Aye," the man conceded. "But if Lionel were one of _your_ lot, you wouldn't be actin' so rashly!"

"If he were one of mine, he'd have heeded me and avoided this plight!" Iorveth shot back.

"As lice eat and shit in my beard, Iorveth, will ye give yer damn 'bleeding heart warlord' act a rest for once?!" pierced an irate dwarven voice. The command seemed to cut through the onlookers, who parted to give Zoltan room to stride up to the scene.

Iorveth's lone eye narrowed at Zoltan. It had appeared to him that he and the dwarf were at an understanding after their night watch in the fur trappers' valley. To be confronted by him like this now only rekindled the spite he felt back in the Arachas lair outside Flotsam.

But then Zoltan continued. "Ye can't honestly be that dense. Whether they admit it or not, everyone here knows by now ye wouldn't spill their blood under Saskia's eye. But the longer you insist on playing the aggressor, the longer they'll keep on playing the victims."

Iorveth clenched his jaw. Did Zoltan truly suggest that his begrudging protection wasn't enough for these humans? That they meant to goad him into _kinship,_ too?

"What is it you propose, dwarf?"

"Do right by the lad, as ye already were," Zoltan said. "But for fuck's sake, quit scarin' him all the more. Then ye'll make much shorter work of all this."

Iorveth's glance fell on Saskia, just a few paces back from the cluster around Lionel. Though her word was absolute and would have dispelled any quarrel once it past her lips, still she stayed detached. But Iorveth detected no weariness or disinterest in her face. Instead, she watched him intently, her eyes expecting…perhaps trusting.

He understood. She had vouched for him all that she could, and now she trusted him to act without her sanction. She'd rewarded his trust, and now it was his turn to reward hers.

"Very well. Know this…Lionel." He forced himself to say the peasant's name as if it were a tortured confession. He looked down at the crippled axeman. His words were flat and emotionless, but no longer venomous. "There is no reversing what's been done, but we must stop it from going any further. If…" He trailed off and suppressed a grimace, disgusted by what he was about to say. "…If you're ever to meet your child back in Upper Aedirn, it will be with a cane in your hand…but better a cane than a coffin."

The fear in Lionel's expression lessened. He stared at the ground. "My child…" Iorveth heard him whisper. Then he looked back up in resignation and drew a ragged breath. "A-Alright…" he stammered. "But I beg of you…I beg of you…please make it fast. Please."

"Lark, tie a tourniquet around his ankle," Iorveth instructed.

She obeyed. "Now, hold still," she told Lionel as she tightened the knot. There was no mocking in her voice this time.

"Here, lad." Zoltan pressed a knotted strip of cloth into Lionel's hand. "Bite down on it."

Lionel did so, then shut his eyes tight in tense dread of the next few moments. The core of the crowd expanded outward without fully dispersing. Iorveth gripped his sword and eyed the man's decrepit foot, now propped against a stone. One strike was all it would take.

The sword came up, then sharply back down with a dull, wet _smack_. Next came the convulsion, the muffled bellows of pain.

Iorveth's precision remained true from his ever more distant human-hunting career. Though Lionel's leg now flailed about, it ended in a pulpy mass of blood and tissue. The other end sat inanimate against the stone.

"Get rid of that," he ordered Lark with a wave of the top of his sword towards the appendage. She wrinkled her nose as she pinched one of the dead toes between her fingers, then pushed through the onlookers to toss it away into the shrubs.

Faye knelt at Lionel's side, as though she had glided to him like a wraith. She brushed a palm over his agonized face and whispered a few words in his ear. A painkilling spell, from the looks of it. His wild thrashing gave way to mere shuddering, and his screams became whimpers.

"Dress the wound," Iorveth ordered Lark when she returned. "As you did the horses' injuries after the bandits' ambush." Again she obeyed, aided by the herb-imbued bandages Faye was already busy preparing.

Iorveth left the pair to tend to the aftermath. Saskia stepped forward to meet him. There was no need to voice her gratitude; her smile and short nod did that. "How long until we are able to set forth?" she asked.

"We'd best camp here," he said. "I've no idea how the witch's spell works, but if it's at all like fisstech, then the axeman may become ill when the shock and effects wear off."

"Anything you say," she complied, then turned to the rest. "I trust you will all make no objection to camping here?" she addressed them. Then, with a wave to the branches that had just been cleared, "Our axeman may be indisposed, but there's no shortage of kindling for our fires already."

"We'll pick up Lionel's slack, Miss Saskia," a common human called out enthusiastically. He and his fellowmen strode forward to collect the wood, while the dwarves began to unpack tents for assembling.

Iorveth was left standing as their fear and distrust of them once more faded away like the morning dew.

**(***)**

That night, what Iorveth hoped would be a moment's repose was cut short by a dwarven holler.

"Oy, ye broodin' butcher!" Yarpen called out, waving to him from a gathering of stout, bearded men softly illuminated by a few miners' lamps. They were seated in a circle, some facing towards him and some facing away. "A word with ye!"

Iorveth raised an eyebrow. He'd grown accustomed to Zoltan's barbs, but for the most part Yarpen Zigrin had left him be. Wary of where this would lead, he approached the dwarves wordlessly. Zoltan, seated next to Yarpen, spoke up first.

"Good on ye, seeing to poor Lionel today," Zoltan commended him. "The lad may not be free with his gratitude, but you did right by him."

Iorveth's gaze was unblinking. "I did what was needed. I care nothing for any gratitude—my only concern was to be done with his folly and on our way."

In the dim flicker of lamplight, he thought he saw Yarpen's beard subtly bobbing as his mouth silently mocked Iorveth's words. By the time the elf brought his full attention to the veteran, Yarpen was promptly scratching at the hairs under his nose.

Iorveth disregarded this. "Is this all you called me for?" he asked sourly.

"Nay, there's more," Yarpen replied. "There's been a wee bit of hearsay that you might be holdin' onto a relic some in Kaedwen think holy."

Iorveth's lip curled. "I never bothered to take holy relics from the _dh'oine_ I've killed. Only the bits of armor and weaponry they held were of any value to me."

"Aye, but that's just it," Yarpen said. "This relic _is_ a bit of weaponry, in fact. A spearhead, so's I'm told."

"Spearhead?" Iorveth echoed. He reached behind his back and into the folds of the blue scarf permanently tied around his waist. He dislodged the tipped blade from its concealment there and glanced at it for a second. He had always assumed it a spearhead like any other—one that a Kaedweni soldier had once wielded against him but failed to finish the job. He'd kept it after that encounter and committed his would-be killer's face to memory. Though he'd considered any human's flesh worthy of its sting, he had held fast to the idea of one day driving it into the face of the one who first delivered it to him. Even a near identical face—a son or a brother—would have sufficed. To him the spearhead was no holy relic. It was way to remind the _dh'oine_ that the Aen Seidhe would never stop repaying their cruelty in kind. "You mean this?" he asked.

Zoltan elbowed Yarpen in the side. "I told ye so!" he chortled.

"How is it a broken spear earns such reverence?" Iorveth puzzled.

"Some refugees from Kaedwen say that when Henselt put a torch to his last advisor three years past, a soldier stuck the poor wench with it to end her pain," Yarpen explained. "In death, the bloody sorceress got her own cult following. Her believers get a hard-on for these artifacts of her execution. They figure it'll grant them the dead witch's favor, or some shite."

Iorveth's lip curled in a fleeting sneer. "After Loc Muinne, I doubt any in Kaedwen have much regard left for mages, living or dead," he remarked flatly. "I can tell you without a doubt, the spear holds no such sentiment for me, either."

"Never once crossed my mind that it did, elf," Yarpen retorted. "Which is why I waved your shriveled arse over here. Surely ye wouldn't mind wagering such a trifling little trinket in a game of dice, would ye?"

Iorveth couldn't help but steer his gaze towards Zoltan. Had this been his suggestion?

"Why are ye giving me that look?" Zoltan asked. "Skalen Burdon—the alderman's nephew back in Vergen—he collects this sort of rubbish in dice games. Yarpen here's got a mind to bring back something interesting to catch the lad's eye. He was the one who brought the spearhead rumor up. I just told him I'd seen ye sharpening one on the barge from Flotsam."

Iorveth gripped the spear and pivoted his wrist, looking it over from front to back. His first impulse said to wedge it back in its hiding place and walk away. But he found himself closely examining the splintered remains of its length and the fine tipped edge. The day of vengeance for which he'd been idly saving this fragmented weapon may never come. In his future, there would be no more prowling in the forests, no more ambushes by human scouts, and no more bloodshed except in defense of Upper Aedirn. As foolish as Skalen's collection of relics may sound, Iorveth was forced to concede that's all the spear was: a relic of his bygone days as a bandit.

"What is it I'm to barter the spearhead against?" he asked at last. "I've little use for coin."

"Feh. Elves. Always the minimalists," Yarpen muttered. "Right then…if I win, ye hand over just the spear. But if ye win, I'll take a night watch off yer hands."

"Extend that offer to any one of my Scoia'tael, and I will aceept," Iorveth countered.

"Aye," Yarpen agreed. "If the dice favor ye, I'll stand in for any one of yer Squirrels. But only one, and on no more than one occasion."

"Very well."

The two assumed their places at the compact battlefield of fortune known as the dice poker board. Iorveth was familiar enough with the rules of the game, though not an enthusiast by any means. The dice rattled in his hand for a passing moment and then tumbled onto the grimly adorned board. _One, two, three, three, six,_ he read the resulting numbers to himself.

As his dice were moved to the edge and Yarpen's took their place, the dwarf's hand proved more favorable. _One, five, five, six, six._

While chances of besting the opposing hand were slim, resignation did not even occur to the Scoia'tael commander. His fingers extended to collect the _one_ and _two_ for re-rolling.

"Not backing down, eh?" Yarpen mused. "Does that scrawny neck so miss sticking out for every noose in the Northern Kingdoms, that it stoops to sticking out for the sake of a wee pointy stick instead?"

Iorveth shrugged off the dwarf's attempt to sway him. "It is in my blood to fight improbable odds to the very last," he retorted. "I'm not about to defy my nature now."

"Then let's make this more interesting," Yarpen suggested. "You manage to pull off the win of a lifetime there, and I'll take one night watch off the hands of a Scoia'tael each night until we arrive in Hengfors."

For once, Iorveth allowed himself to smile in amusement. "All for a 'pointy stick'? It's beginning to seem like you believe in Henselt's dead witch yourself, Zigrin."

Yarpen guffawed. "Ho ho, you miss the point, butcher. It's not just the spear I'll be playin' for now. No, should the dice favor me once more, I'll take the spear…and you'll be answerin' some questions I have on my mind."

"And what do your questions concern?"

"Five things. A mane of flaxen hair, two blue eyes and a pair of pert tits."

Iorveth tried not to give away his surprise, but clearly his reaction was not lost on Zoltan from the sidelines. "Thought that might get your attention," he said with a smirk.

Glancing with suspicion around the camp, Iorveth quickly found the two travel companions he trusted the least: Faye and Tarn. The sorceress knelt by the spot where a semi-conscious Lionel lay draped in a blanket. Her palm was outstretched, and from thin air a butterfly came into being at her fingertips. It fluttered onto the invalid peasant's nose, and he grinned groggily. The illusionary insect returned to the nothing from whence Faye summoned it.

The Count, meanwhile, was hidden behind the trunk of a nearby tree. He called to one of the simpler humans, his hand jutting from the tree base. The mere servant, while keeping his eyes firmly away from Tarn, waved some leaves in the noble's direction until they connected with his waiting grasp. The purpose of the leaves was easily discernible.

If it had been Faye of Ban Ard or Count Tarn Marco with a mind to question Iorveth about Saskia, he'd have told them in the plainest of words to hold their tongues. He admitted that Zoltan Chivay, for all his dwarven brazenness, had given him no real cause for distrust. Yarpen Zigrin, on the other hand…

As Iorveth recalled, Yarpen made no secret of his past exploits as a dragon hunter. Could it be he suspected…?

The Aen Seidhe drew back from the two dice, and instead laid the spearhead on the game board. "Take it. I've nothing to say of what you would ask, and the Scoia'tael will continue to defend the caravan by night without complaint."

Yarpen let out something between a snort and a chortle as he took the spearhead. "Have it yer way, then—ye just said enough as it is. Looks like ye were right, Zoltan; the Virgin of Aedirn makes the old human-slayer as long as he is tall."

"Nothing is impossible, is it?" Zoltan added. "If Upper Aedirn can wrest her independence, then even an elf that thirsts for human blood can wake up one morning with a taste for honey."

Iorveth's nostrils flared. _That's_ what this was about? Not accusations as to the Dragonslayer's true nature…but mere lecherous insolence?

"You both assume far too much," he countered barely above a growl. "Your queen is no one's conquest. Not on the battlefield…nor off."

"Fine, fine," Zoltan conceded. "Seems a sense of humor was too much to hope for from the likes of ye."

"Aye," said Yarpen. "Clear off and give someone else yer seat at the dice board, before that stick up yer ass bends to the point of breaking."

Iorveth did indeed stand to go. He tuned out the sounds of the dwarves' banter and laughter as they receded into the night.

Raucous dwarven banter or no, far be it from him to allow such crude words about Saskia in his presence. The maiden human body that Yarpen so shamelessly referred to was the least of her many honorable traits.

And even if he _did_ dare to imagine her as more to him than a noble leader and a secured future for the Aen Seidhe, he was certain she'd never return such views.</


End file.
